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VANITY! 

Confes?0ion0 of a Court ^oDiote 


BY 

‘RITA’ 

AUTHOR or “kitty,” “ GOOD MRS. HYPOCRITK,” 
ETC., ETC. 



NEW YORK 

F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY 
9 and ii East Sixteenth Street 

LONDON; T. FISHER UNWIN 
1900 

1 


r>2725 

jl_it>r*4j g of 

PVto i Jhii: Hhi^UEB 

I OCT 18 1900 

1 Co»yriffc< wtry 

StCrNO COPY. 

OHhffe#^ to 

OfiOtS MVISIOH, 

O GT 22 1900 




Copyright, 1900, by 
F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY 



“ Vanity." 



3«.l 


VANITY! 


CHAPTER I. 

With grave doubt I regarded it. 
3rou-Srou ** 


Court SHodiste 

That was all. My new sign. My new signa- 
ture ready to be affixed to my new premises 
in Bond Street. 

It had to be Bond Street whether I liked 
the rent or could afford it. My inability to 
discharge the latter was not of much impor- 
tance, I had so many things to consider just 
then. It was all risk, a pure speculation, but 
Di Abercroft had advised it, and she was one 
of the successful modistes of London, and 
dressed all the principal actresses, who called 
her gowns Worth, and Paquir, and Felix, and 
thereby delighted and imposed on the guile- 
less British public. 


3 


4 


Vanity! 

Dear public ! How very guileless it is in 
some things, and how easily deceived, and 
how dearly it loves the gilt on its gingerbread. 
How it worships millionaires and titles, and the 
magnificent success of Dishonesty 1 It was in 
order to test its gullibility and prove the truth 
of much that cynics and wise men had said 
and written on the subject that I had ordered 
this sign upon which I was now gazing. 

I stood on the bare boards of what was 
shortly to be my Emporium of Fashion. At 
present it was only furnished with this sign, 
and the assertion of Court Modiste was merely 
a playful jest on my part. I had never made a 
Court gown, but I meant to. I was therefore 
only forestalling my intentions by announcing 
them as a fact. 

“ A good beginning is everything,” said Di 
Abercroft. “Make a bold plunge, and the 
splash will attract notice. Once get noticed 
and you’re all right.” 

So I went straight to the heart of the matter 
and chose my name, in itself an advertisement 
of purpose. For vanity lies at the root of 
every female heart to which I appealed. A 
desire to be beautiful, to be admired, envied, 
remarked. Oh ! I know my sex very well, and 
had served them a long apprenticeship since 
misfortune and I were “ first acquaint.” I 
thought of that acquaintanceship as I looked 


Vanity! 5 

round at my empty walls, my vacant shelves 
and presses. 

I thought of my drudgery as a daily govern- 
ess, ill-paid, imposed upon ; forced to accept 
starvation pay and put up with sneers and in- 
sults. Hiding the instincts of a lady under 
shabby gowns, wearing cleaned gloves, and 
cheap boots, and home-trimmed hats. 

The room before me became suddenly a 
picture-gallery of memories, in all of which I 
moved and suffered, and endured. My youth 
flashed out stormily— a rebellion against dis- 
cipline, hardship, poverty. I loved all things 
beautiful and artistic. Form and color were a 
delight. Circumstances forbade my interpret- 
ing them as I wished. My eyes might feast, 
but my heart could only envy. For youth 
does not love to take its joys second-hand, to 
look at love, beauty, wealth, success, through 
other eyes, while its own grow dim with bitter 
tears, and the unattainable is the ever present 
mirage in its dreary life-desert. 

I roused myself suddenly from these reflec- 
tions. I had lived through suffering, and now 
I was going to avenge it. The past was behind 
me — thank heaven for that ! I was still young 
— not thirty. I had a face and figure that were 
eminently serviceable for the purpose in view. 
I had worked hard at this business, both in 
shops and privately. I had studied its minut- 


6 


Vanity! 

est details under Di Abercroft’s able guidance. 
I had a genius for “ cut,” and an eye for color 
and combination. But my capital was small, 
and the Semitic friend who had advanced it 
was not more generously disposed towards me 
than many of his fellows. However, he had 
faith in me and in Di’s promised assistance. 
She made thousands a year, and could send 
me hosts of customers. The fact of my having 
been with her for three years was in itself an 
introduction, and as for the rest, audacity must 
win the day or — Well, of course, there was a 
reverse side to the picture, even as there was 
a blank side to my sign, but I had pinned my 
colors to the masthead of vanity, and vanity it 
should be by which I triumphed 1 

Once more I gazed at my empty showroom. 
I peopled it with living figures — alive with the 
rustle of silken skirts, perfumed flounces, gay 
voices, lace, and satin, and fur, and all the 
dainty and useless fripperies of a woman’s 
toilet overflowed the shelves, and were heaped 
on the tables and decorated the stands. Color 
and beauty shone out of the now dusky twi- 
light. Life and motion stirred briskly in the 
empty rooms. Orders were pouring in, busi- 
ness was flourishing, and I — prime mover, or- 
ganizer and controller of it all— smiled glee- 
fully as I read on all sides and on every face 
the one word “ Success^'* 


Vanity! 


7 


A knock at the door interrupted me at this 
moment. I opened it to admit a tall, graceful 
woman, about whom the only qualifying adjec- 
tive of description would be “ distinguished.” 

It was my friend Di Abercroft — the famous 
Mrs. Abercroft, the designer and executioner 
of some of the loveliest and most wonderful 
costumes ever seen in London drawing-rooms 
or fashionable theaters. 

“ I thought I should find you here,” she said. 
“But how dark and gloomy. Can’t you light 
up?” 

“ The fittings aren’t here yet,” I said. “You 
know what workmen are. But the board has 
come. There’s light enough to see that. 
What do you think of it ? ” 

She surveyed my sign critically. Gold on 
white — a very good imitation of my own hand- 
writing. 

“ I never liked the name, you know,” she 
said. “ But you would have it. Still, it really 
looks very well and may ‘ catch on.’ People 
are so odd, and it’s certainly novel. One gets 
tired of those eternal ‘ Marguerites,’ and ‘ Pau- 
lines,’ and ‘ Juliettes.’ By the way, two of my 
travelers will call on you to-morrow. One is 
from Paris. He is an Irishman who went 
over to a firm there some years ago and has 
worked it into quito a big concern. I mention 


8 


Vanity! 

it because he’s the only one of all I employ 
whom it’s safe to trust. His taste is absolutely 
perfect, but he's the most audacious creature. 
He absolutely tells you what you are to take, 
and in the end I have to give in. It’s no use 
to say ‘ no.' Fortunately he can be depended 
on, and the things he brings are lovely. If it 
weren’t for that — ” 

She paused and laughed. “ Well, I can’t 
wait,” she went on ; “ I’ve a hundred things 
to do. When does your furniture come in ? ” 

“ To-morrow.” 

“ Poor thing 1 I pity you. What a day you’ll 
have. You won’t open for a week, of course ? ” 

“No. I want the showroom to be quite 
perfect.” 

“And you’ll give that afternoon reception, 
as I advised ? ” 

“ Of course. I sent out the cards a fort- 
night ago.” 

“They’ve done the decorations very well,” 
she said, glancing round. “ Now, be wise, and 
make friends of the Mammon of Unrighteous- 
ness in the shape of little Abrahams. He can 
do you a lot of good, or harm, as it suits him. 
They say half of the ‘ smart set ' are in his 
hands.” 

“I hope he'll pass them unto mine. But 
tell me, Di, how long credit ? ” 

Half-yearly accounts, and six months’ wait- 


9 


Vanity! 

ing. Charge it on, you know. And— one cau- 
tion — never be induced to lend money to a 
customer. They’ll try it on. They always do. 
You’ve no idea how mean great ladies can be. 
They’ll ask for a five-pound note sometimes, 
and forget all about it, and then fight over a 
shilling in the bills. However, you’ll find all 
that out for yourself. By the way. I’m send- 
ing you Lady Farringdon. She wants a Court 
gown for the first Drawing-room, and some 
evening dresses. Says I’m too expensive — so 
I passed her on. Ask her seventy-five pounds 
for the Court gown. She’ll give her own lace 
and think it’s a bargain. Her money’s safe. 
Her husband’s an M. P., so he won’t have a 
‘ show up.’ Your women are all right, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ I hope so. Miss Jacks was at Lewis & 
Allenby’s, and the bodice hands are well 
recommended. I shall see to the fitting my- 
self.” 

“ That’s wise. Your ‘cut ’ is an inspiration. 
I should make that a specialty. Jacks is very 
good ; I know her. Are you taking on Mrs. 
Underwood ? ” 

“Yes. She’s such a good supervisor.” 

“ Oh 1 she’s right enough when she’s sober. 
But mind there’s not a break out. I wouldn’t 
put up with her at last, good as she was, and 
Valerie sent her off at a moment’s notice.” 


10 Vanity! 

We were at the door now. Her little 
brougham, perfect in all its appointments, stood 
under the gaslight, waiting. A small youth 
who combined the offices of “tiger” and page 
held the door open. 

“ Can I drop you anywhere ? ” she asked. 

“ No, thanks. I’m going to walk and do a 
little shop-gazing.” 

“Well, good-by. I wish you well over to- 
morrow. Let me know when you’re straight. 
I’ll send you over some gowns for the show- 
room. You must have some on view, and 
you can copy, with ‘ variations/ as we say.” 

The door closed. The small liveried at- 
tendant sprang up on the box. The brougham 
dashed off, and I closed the door of my new 
premises and walked slowly and thoughtfully 
along in the dim wintry night. 

I had plenty of food for meditation. My 
new venture, the possibilities of failure, the 
quickest and most original method of bringing 
myself into public notice — feminine, of course. 

I gazed at the brilliantly-lit windows, loiter- 
ing sometimes to admire an effective setting 
of some material, or the style of some Paris 
novelty — made in England. The best and most 
artistic confections are more adaptations of 
“ across-the-Channel ” fashions than copies. 
For whether it be treason or not to say it, 
French taste is more eccentric than perfect, 


Vanity! it 

and French style is altogether too outre and 
pronounced for the true Elegante. Myself I 
like the fashions of Vienna better than those of 
Paris, but the English modification of both is 
the best taste of all. 

I let myself in with my key and went up- 
stairs. My little French domestic — a veritable 
treasure of usefulness, ingenuity and good 
temper — whom I had picked up at Ostend, a 
matter of two or three years back, had every- 
thing ready for dinner ; and although we were 
on the eve of flitting, the room and the table 
looked as cosy and inviting as she generally 
managed they should look. 

Babette was extraordinarily interested in the 
new venture. She was to take all housekeep- 
ing and catering off my hands, provide meals 
for the work-girls, superintend the servant I 
had engaged, and fulfil the duties of maid to 
myself when I needed her. 

I knew her value and had taken her from the 
household drudgery of a small private hotel. 
For this she was absurdly grateful, and twenty 
pounds a year seemed to her as the wealth of 
Croesus. Her skill, quickness and ability 
rendered her of inestimable value to me. 
Besides, she was trustworthy. 

Over a cutlet, a sweet omelet and a half- 
pint bottle of claret I talked to her of the 
affairs of the morrow, and the prospects of the 


12 Vanity! 

opening campaign. She was elated, very 
voluble, very sympathetic. 

How is it one can be so much more confi- 
dential with a French servant than an English 
one ? Perhaps because one suffers no loss of 
respect by so doing. Their interest is genuine, 
and they do not presume upon it. Of very 
few of our English domestics can that be 
said. 

“Madame is sure to succeed,” she answered 
hopefully. “ Oh I it is certain she will. So 
gracieiisej so gentille as she is, and with the 
taste all that is of the most perfect ! ” 

I laughed. “ I hope my future customers 
will think my taste ‘ of the most perfect,’ ” I 
said. “And now, Babette, clear away these 
things. I don’t want any dessert, and I’m 
going to my room to pack up.” 


Vanity! 


13 


CHAPTER II. 

Who does not shudder at a “move ” ? The 
early advent of vans ; the persistent manner 
in which the men bring first everything you 
don’t want and nothing that you do ; the 
hopeless muddle, the impossibility of a seat 
or a meal during the whole day. The arrival 
of carpets after furniture instead of before. 
The pleasant little joke of leaving bedroom 
furniture in the sitting-rooms, and taking what 
should be in the kitchen to the attics ! All 
this in a modified form befell me, and drove 
me to distraction while men were fixing blinds 
and curtain poles, and laying down carpets. 
My premises were small and incommodious, 
but the frontage was good. I had, of course, 
to pay a ruinous price for the address. 

The waiting-room was my own sitting-room 
as well, and Di had advised me to make it as 
artistic as possible in order to produce a good 
impression on visitors. So valuable etchings 
in artistic frames hung on the pale terra-cotta 
walls, and tapestry screens broke up a hard 
square into cosy nooks where low cushioned 


14 Vanity! 

chairs and dainty tables (destined to be littered 
with fashion plates and Ladies’ Journals) stood 
in happy disorder. 

The carpet was an Ambusson square of 
richly glowing hues, the only dash of bold 
color among subdued tints. I was standing 
surveying the general effect after five hours’ 
labor and misery when Babette came to me 
with a card. 

“ The monsieur says he is of Madame Aber- 
croft’s recommendation. He is of Paris. It 
is important he see madame to-day.” 

I glanced at the name. 

Mons. Ai^phonsk W1I.DASH, 

Marchand et Cie., 

Paris. 

This must be the French traveler Di had 
spoken about. I resolved to see him despite 
confusion, and told Babette to bring him up- 
stairs. 

I had often interviewed travelers while 
serving my apprenticeship to business. As a 
class I did not hold them in favor. 

I gave a cursory glance at the intruder and 
addressed him in French. He was tall, very 
good-looking, and had the manner and address 
of a gentleman, so I saw in one quick glance. 
Also— his hands were empty of the usual 
travelers’ paraphernalia. 

“ I am only just moving in, as you see,” I 


Vanity! 15 

observed. “You must excuse confusion. 
What is it you have brought ? ” 

“ Nothing — at present,” he answered in Eng- 
lish. I noticed as I met his eyes that they 
were blue, and had a sort of twinkle, or rather 
sparkle in them indicative of humor. They 
gave one rapid glance around. “ I heard you 
were only just establishing yourself, so I came 
to see what you would be likely to require.” 

He drew a chair up to one of the small 
tables and offered it to me, and then drew a 
note-book from his pocket. 

“ As a friend of Mrs. Abercroft’s,” he went 
on, “ you will probably model yourself on her. 
Myself — I— should advise you to be quite 
original. There is nothing more difficult, but 
also nothing that so succeeds. Now, I thought 
of sending you some rather exclusive things 
for your showroom. They won’t be seen any- 
where else, I promise you, except at one Paris 
establishment. Trimmings, materials, novel- 
ties of various kinds.” 

“ I should like to see them first,” I said, not 
caring for quite such liaut en has proceedings. 

“Oh ! you may quite depend on me,” he 
answered with a smile. 

The smile was so radiant and the even teeth 
so white, and the whole expression of the face 
at once so audacious and good-tempered and 
yet masterful, that I suddenly recalled Di’s 


1 6 Vanity! 

words about him and wondered if I had better 
leave myself in his hands, even as she said. 

“In a venture like this,” he went on, “the 
golden rule is fearlessness. You must do the 
best thing in the best way. You must rule 
your customers, not be ruled by them. Never 
suffer dictation, or you are lost. Believe me I 
have studied your sex ever since I was thirteen 
years of age — studied them from a point of van- 
tage few men possess. See how frank I am.” 

He smiled again, and put aw^ay the note-book 
and took a chair opposite my own. 

“ I congratulate you on your name,” he went 
on. “ It is excellent, excellent 1 It will catch 
on. It means what it says. In three months’ 
time I expect to find you flourishing. In a 
year you will be famous, or ought to be. En- 
terprise, courage, force — I read them all in your 
face. Are you married ? Of course ‘ Mad- 
ame ’ may be only complimentary, as in France, 
but it is decidedly better.” 

“ I scarcely see what that has to do with your 
business — Mr. — Mr. — ” 

“ Wildash,” he said as I glanced at the card 
before me. “Not Alphonse, or monsieur, or 
any of that nonsense. I had to do that for the 
firm, of course, but I’ll be frank with you— I’m 
really an Irishman, by birth and by my mother’s 
side. I inherit a great deal of her spirit and 
manner, so I’m told. She was rather a— well, 


Vanity! 17 

a lively lady. My father didn’t get on very 
well with her. They broke up the home — case 
of incompatability of temper, ‘the harp that 
once’ and all that. I’ve had a lot of knocking 
about, but I think it hasn’t done me much 
harm. I entered Marchand & Cie.’s place 
when I was quite a boy, and I’ve worked them 
up splendidly. I get a good salary now, and 
I like the business — especially the traveling.” 

“ Do you always entertain customers with 
your family history ? ” I asked dryly. 

He flushed a little. “ I beg your pardon. 
I don’t know what made me tell you all this — 
only--” 

Then I laughed outright. There was some- 
thing so frank and boyish about him I couldn’t 
help it. 

“ Never mind. I’ve a touch of Irish blood 
myself.” 

“ I thought so. We were sympathetic di- 
rectly.” 

“ Oh ! indeed ? ” 

“ Well, I felt it, if you didn’t. An Irish 
friendship always starts with ‘ tracing.’ See 
how I told you all about myself.” 

“ I hope you don’t expect me to be equally 
communicative ? ” 

‘‘ Of course not. Only I should like to know 
your name — your real name — if you would tell 

me.” 

2 


i8 Vanity! ' 

“ You will be concerned only with what my 
sign conveys,” I answered coldly. “ Mean- 
while I will place myself in your hands and 
give you a commission. In a week from now 
I open. Can you send me any of those novel- 
ties of which you spoke by that time ? ” 

“ I return to Paris to-night. I will see to it 
at once.” 

“ And— payment ?” 

“ Same terms as Mrs. Abercroft, if they will 
suit.” 

“ But I haven’t an established business like 
hers — your firm — ” 

“ My firm give me carte blanche to act as I 
think best.” 

“ And you believe you can trust me. I 
might fail — what then ? ” 

“ You will not fail,” he said, and his smile 
was positively illuminating. “ A brow, a chin 
like yours, never spelt failure, and your eyes are 
truth itself.” 

I rose abruptly, annoyed at the flattery, for 
I disliked personalities introduced into business 
matters, and yet — not so ill-pleased that I could 
resent it on grounds of familiarity. But it was 
new to me to have travelers speaking in this 
fashion. However, this individual was a nov- 
elty in that line, so I scarce knew whether to 
be amused or offended. 

He took up his hat. 


Vanity! 19 

“ I shall see you at the end of three months,” 
he said. “ I wish you all success.” 

He held out his hand — another unconven- 
tional act on the part of travelers. I gave him 
mine, and he ran down the stairs with an utter 
absence of dignity, whistling softly. 

For a week Babette and I, with spasmodic 
help from the British workman, helped at 
arranging my new quarters. The result was 
eminently satisfactory, and on the afternoon of 
my reception I walked through waiting-room, 
fitting-room and showroom with well-warranted 
complacency. 

If not as luxurious as some eminent modistes' 
emporiums, they were all artistic, dainty and 
comfortable. The shelves and presses of the 
showroom held piles of lovely materials for 
the forthcoming season. Dumb models stood 
about, robed and garmented in exquisite gowns, 
and crowned with chef-d'ceuvres of millinery. 

Every costume could be turned out perfect 
in every detail with the exception of boots. 
Gowns, mantles, hats, furs, laces, trimmings, 
all were on view^ to-day. Sketches and original 
designs lay about in artistic confusion. Some 
of the most original had been sent by Mr. Wild- 
ash, much to my surprise, and the trimmings 
and embroideries and dentelles forwarded from 
his firm were simply dreams of beauty and 


20 Vanity! 

extravagance. Happy woman who could af- 
ford them 1 

I was consumed with momentary envy as I 
gazed. Three gorgeous toilets from Di Aber- 
croft’s workrooms were en evidence^ and I my- 
self was gowned in turquoise blue cloth, edged 
and trimmed with sable and lace. I had never 
looked better, nor worn a better “ fit.” My nerv- 
ousness abated as I looked at my own advertise- 
ment of my capabilities, and while self-satisfac- 
tion reigned supreme, the first carriage rolled 
up, and a stately dame, tall, elegant amber- 
haired, a modern Juno, in fact, entered the shop. 

Di Abercroft followed so closely that I learnt 
she was Lady Farringdon almost before I had 
recognized a first customer. 

She was a very charming woman, if a little 
overladen with social minauderies. She 
wanted a Court gown, and I listened deferen- 
tially to her ideas on the subject. 

They were not mine. I studied her face and 
figure and possibilities, and knew instinctively 
what would be effective. However, this was 
not the occasion to assert my opinions, and I 
contented myself with making an appointment 
instead. Quite a crowd of women flocked in 
now. They all seemed to know one another. 
They chirped and gossiped, examined my 
various confections, tried on hats and bonnets, 
drank tea, and nibbled cakes and sweetmeats, 


Vanity! 21 

professed themselves delighted with every- 
thing, asked innumerable questions, and left 
me with more orders than I well knew how to 
execute. 

So far my afternoon had been a success. I 
had heard a good many scandals, seen many 
wonderful faces and figures, learnt something 
of great ladies’ extravagances and the way 
debts were paid in society, had been petted 
or patronized according to the whim or neces- 
sity of those I promised to oblige, and was at 
last left to my own reflections, tired, yet elated, 
and ready for a confidential chat with Di Aber- 
croft who had remained behind for that pur- 
pose. 

Di was a perfect encyclopedia of fashionable 
knowledge. She never forgot a face or a 
scandal. Yet she was too good-natured to rule 
by such means, and had a suave, gracious 
manner that made her a universal favorite. 
She was a tall, graceful blonde, with innocent 
blue eyes, was always wonderfully costumed, 
and had so large and rich and important a 
clientele that she could have spared half and 
not missed them. 

We withdrew into my own little sanctum 
when every one had departed, and Babette 
brought us black coflee, chartreuse and ciga- 
rettes. Under their soothing influence Di's 
worldly soul unburdened itself to me, and I 


22 Vanity! 

learnt many things that were needful, much 
that was shocking, and little that tended to 
give me a very high opinion of my own sex 
in general. 

“ By the way,” I said at last, “ that French 
traveler did call. At least he’s not French but 
Irish. Somewhat of a character, isn’t he ? ” 

“ Indeed, yes.” She laughed and lit a cig- 
arette. “ A dear boy and so good-looking. 
Quite a pet of mine. And the most perfect 
taste. He never makes a mistake. And he 
has a genius for what I call ‘ faking ’ — you 
know — making a thing up to suit a particular 
requirement. Now, I’ll let you into a secret. 
Have you seen ‘ The Meddlesome Girl ’ at 
the Piccadilly Theater ? ” 

“ No, not yet.” 

“ I’ll take you. I have a box for to-morrow 
night. You shall see Miss Ellery’s gown. 
Every one is raving about it. Hand-painted 
roses, natural as life, thrown in a trail over 
palest pink satin, low bodice, black baby-rib- 
bon let in— exquisite. Well, my dear, she 
couldn’t possibly afford hand-painted satin, 
and she wouldn’t go into debt, and she is 
never ‘obliged’ by any one. She’s quite 
straight.” 

“Details a i)roj)os—o{ what ? ” 

“The roses. What do you think ? It was 
Harry Wildash’s suggestion.” 


23 


Vanity! 

“ To the Irish all things are possible,” I said, 
laughing, “ and he has a full share of his na- 
tion’s audacity.” 

“ And ingenuity, you’ll grant ? ” 

“And artifice?” I questioned, with a re- 
membrance of Mrs. Malaprop. 

“ Perhaps something of all these. Well, 
Myra, don’t whisper it beyond these four walls 
as you value my reputation. Those roses are 
cut out of chintz^ and gummed on the satin f 


24 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER III. 

I WAS still laughing over this disclosure when 
Babette appeared on the scene. 

She handed me a card. I took it, and then 
threw it across to Di. “ You’d better see her,” 
she advised. “ You’ll have to advertise in the 
paper, but they’ll give you an interview, and 
she’ll do some sketches of your gowns. My- 
self I never bother about these people, but 
you’re in a different line, and you’ll want your 
Court dresses described. Ask her in and we’ll 
see what she says for herself.” 

I gave the necessary order, and Babette 
appeared again, announcing a gaunt-looking 
female with straggling wisps of hair, armed 
with a note-book and spectacles. 

“You have called from the Lady's Illus- 
trated ? ” I said sweetly. 

“Yes; I do the fashions for them. They 
thought you would like to advertise. Here is 
our scale of charges. If you wish I’ll take some 
notes of your establishment. A notice in our 
paper is very beneficial.” 

“ I have no objection,” I said. “ I am sorry 


Vanity! 25 

you did not call earlier, I had a sort of open- 
ing reception. However, if you care to have 
an account of it I shall be happy to give it 
you.” 

“You would have to take a hundred copies 
of the paper if I put in such a notice.” 

I hesitated. “ Is that — usual ?” 

“ Oh ! yes. Then you would be expected 
to advertise half a column weekly, and my 
commission is two per cent, on what you ex- 
pend.” 

“ Very well. But you will say nice things 
of my establishment, won’t you ?” 

“ Depend upon that. Now, if you will give 
me a few details I’ll work up an article that 
will please you. A lady, of course, doing this 
out of enterprise— they always like that — and 
with a natural taste for the modistes art. ... I 
quite understand. Who were at the reception ? 
Any titles ? . . . they love titles. . . . Thank 
you, that will do. Now for the showroom and 
my sketches.” 

I rose to accompany her. I rather admired 
the business-like way she went to work. 

She took down a description of the show- 
room, sketched one or two models, then shut 
her little book and turned to me. 

“That tweed,” she observed, pointing to a 
material on the table, “ would make a useful 
coat and skirt. I never wear anything fanciful 


26 Vanity! 

— tweed in winter, linen in summer. When 
could you fit me ? " 

I was somewhat taken aback. “ Is that be- 
side your — commission ? ” 

“ Oh ! yes, it’s usual — Madame Cross, Mrs. 
Oliver, all of them do it. It’s a good adver- 
tisement for you. I’ll say it came from here.” 

I could not help thinking that her face and 
figure would not be likely to advertise any 
gown we made her, but policy counseled 
politeness. I therefore merely announced my 
willingness to fit her gaunt frame the next 
afternoon, and promised the gown within a 
week. She nodded approvingly, held out a 
badly-gloved long hand and then took her 
departure. 

I returned to Di and the cigarettes. 

“ How funny it all is ! ” I said, “ and how 
different when one is behind the scenes. Do 
you furnish the press with costumes ? ” 

“ Has she been levying blackmail ? ” laughed 
Di. “ I thought her gown was very shabby. 
Be sure she’s done that on her own account. 
They all try it on. Well, one can hardly blame 
them, poor souls 1 They get wretchedly paid, 
have their meals at an A. B. C. shop, and are 
obliged to watch any chance as keenly as a cat 
at a mouse-hole. Are bullied by editors, wor- 
ried by the staff, hated for a success, despised 
for a failure. All in all a journalist’s life is not 


Vanity! 27 

a happy one, and there are too many in the 
field. They’re in one another’s way — conse- 
quently the pay is bad and the competition 
enormous. We live in an age of women work- 
ers, my dear, but the age is none the better for 
it. The fashion papers only pander to our 
vanity. The society notes in the daily press 
are simply vulgar advertisement of notoriety. 
You’ll see the same names appearing day after 
day. Mrs. ‘Jack’ Nobody was seen driving or 
walking or lunching, and Lady ‘ Tom ’ Some- 
body was exquisitely gowned at the Duchess 
of Lackland’s reception. Her grace herself 
looked a picture, and wore some fine diamonds. 
I call it offensive and impertinent ; I can’t 
think why people tolerate it. To have one’s 
name, one’s face, one’s gowns and jewels at 
the mercy of any penny-a-liner 1 Well, after 
all, my dear, there’s some satisfaction in being 
a nobody. We escape personal indignities of 
that sort.” 

“Those people to-day,” I observed, “didn’t 
seem worthy of any better fate. They simply 
were Mrs. ‘Jack’ this and Mrs. ‘ Tom’ that, 
in different gowns, but all living the same life, 
talking of the same things and bent on being 
seen at the same places.” 

“ Pleasure is not an inventive god. One 
dinner-party or one ball does not differ very 
much from another in glory. For my part, I 


2 8 Vanity! 

think my stage clientele get much more fun 
out of life than their sisters of the great world. 
No one enjoys pleasure or leisure until they 
know what work is. Society has only ca- 
prices.” 

“ Who is Lady Farringdon ?” I asked pres- 
ently. 

“Harmless enough. Her husband is in the 
House. She is not in the best set, though I 
believe she gets a state concert or a Marl- 
borough House garden-party now and then. 
She is inclined to exaggeration. Don’t let her 
have her own way — I mean too much color, 
too many jewels, too much red and white, too 
much bust and too compressed a waist. She 
horrifies me. You will have two hours’ trying 
on of every gown she orders, and it will take 
your fitter half an hour to pull in her corsets. 
She sits down between every tug to get her 
breath, and then tells you they’re quite loose 1 ” 

“ How foolish 1 I hate to see a woman’s 
figure like an hour-glass. Why can’t they see 
that proportion is the true art of beauty ? Who 
admires an exaggerated waist ? I’m sure men 
don’t, and no woman could — because she 
knows what suffering it entails, and what in- 
jury it does.” 

“God knows! It’s one of the things past 
understanding. But why should we criticize 
our foolish sex, my child ? It is on their fol- 


29 


Vanity! 

lies we flourish and make fortunes ; at least I 
hope you’ll make a fortune. Then you can 
retire and live your life as seems best — or 
marry.” 

“ I shall not do that. . . . You should know 
better than to advise it.” 

“Oh ! I forgot that little contretemps. But 
it’s all so long ago . . . and no one knows.” 

“ Isn’t it sufficient that I know, and have to 
suffer for it ? ” I asked bitterly. 

“ My dear, if I were you I wouldn’t suffer. 
Men aren’t worth it, believe me. They have 
their consolations. Why shouldn’t we have 
ours ? ” 

She rose and took my hands affectionately. 
We were not very demonstrative as a rule, Di 
and I. 

“ You’ll come to the theater to-morrow ? ” 
she asked. “ I’ll call for you. Wear a pretty 
gown. Our box is well placed. Shall I ask 
Burke Mahoney to join us ? We could have 
supper at the Savoy, or Cecil, if you like.” 

“ Very well,” I said. “ It will be amusing. 
And as my days are likely to be busy, I may 
as well enjoy my evenings.” 

“ Burke’s very good fun as you know. He’s 
just got on a new paper — The Cynic. Motto 
— praise nothing, sneer at all things. And he’s 
just the very essence of good-humor and jol- 
lity.” 


30 


Vanity! 

“ Perhaps that’s why he can write cynicisms 
and enjoy them. Force of contrast.” 

“ Even as we enjoy the theater because we 
come to it from workrooms and fripperies.” 

“ And chintz roses,” I said, laughing. 

“ My dear, society is very like my chintz 
roses. It only requires effects, no matter how 
startling or bizarre. All its satin passes for 
hand-painted if it’s only worn by the right 
person.” 

I thought of that remark after Di had left, 
and the showroom was closed, and I was re- 
flecting on the day’s experience. 

“Worn by the right person.” Yes. That 
was the secret of social success. To be so 
far above the crowd that what you wore was 
correct, however eccentric, what you said was 
witty, what you did was not to be caviled at. 
It must be nice to be one of the elect. To 
be in the right “ set,” and know all the right 
people. Never to wear that air of “ not being 
in it” which is impossible of disguise. Never 
to be in ignorance of the latest mode in hand- 
shakes and slang, and society shibboleth. And 
it looked so easy. 

I had studied the world from many points 
of view, and, as the “ looker-on” sees most of 
the game, I had contrived to see a good deal, 
and learn more. Paris, London, the Riviera, 


Vanity! 31 

had all played school board to my various 
educational standards. I was by no means 
meanly equipped for my battle with life and 
my own sex. I had little to thank them for, 
and I owed many a bitter grudge which I was 
well minded to repay if fate gave me the 
chance. 

But to get that chance I must become a 
necessity, some one not easy to snub or ignore. 
I must rule through their worst and lowest 
passions. I must get to know their secrets, 
and use them to my own advantage. It would 
not be easy, perhaps, but it would be worth 
trying. What I had learnt in Paris, and seen 
in Monte Carlo, and studied in London might 
be of inestimable value. I knew it was a habit 
of great ladies to “ pet ” their dressmakers in 
order to have the first chance of novelty, the 
best attention, and be sure of getting new 
gowns at a few hours’ notice, even in the height 
of the season. Besides, there were so many 
other little services we could render. 

I went over the “ pros ” and “ cons” carefully. 
I laid my plans, and surveyed my scheme 
of action. A great deal — almost everything — 
would depend on that first Court gown. It 
must be my “ sprat” thrown into the great sea 
where the shoals of mackerel swam and 
fought and crowded with persistent energy. 
It must bring me into notice even where all 


32 


Vanity! 

else would be noticeable. The wearer was of 
secondary importance in my estimation, al- 
though I knew that art would make her more 
than presentable. But she must be garbed in 
such fashion as should win instant attention 
and keep it. Here was no question of costli- 
ness. It was more of chic, that vague, un- 
translatable word which means so little yet so 
much. 

I racked my brains. I drew designs. I 
could have cursed the hampering clauses of 
Court directions — the arbitrary rules of cut 
and shape and length ; but yet my gown lived 
and took form and became a thing of exquisite 
beauty. 

I cannot tell how or why it was that amidst 
my designs there suddenly flashed before 
me the laughing eyes of the young Irish trav- 
eler. 

“ I declare I will ask his opinion ! ” I cried 
suddenly. “ Tm sure he has good taste. 
What he sent me for the showroom was 
perfect 1” 

Acting on the thought, I drew writing ma- 
terials towards me and dashed off a hurried 
note to my audacious friend. I described 
Lady Farringdon exactly— coloring, height, 
general style and appearance. I begged for 
his advice, by return of post, at the same time 
submitting my ideas. 


Vanity! 33 

Then, much relieved in mind, I rang for 
Babette and supper. 

And so ended my first day as a professional 
modiste. 

3 


34 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER IV. 

NOTES FROM MY DIARY. 

Feb. 2d.— I must jot down certain facts 
and episodes of my new life if I am to come 
to a satisfactory understanding with their re- 
sults. Besides, my memory is not so good as 
it might be. I have resolved therefore to put 
down every night what happens during the 
day. 

I shall begin with this morning and the visit 
of Lady Farringdon to discuss her dress for 
the March Drawing-room. 

As I had not yet heard from Wildash I kept 
her off on generalities, saying that I expected 
marvels from Paris and would defer our deci- 
sion until their arrival. 

It was a very cold day, and she sat by the 
fire, in a long, softly-padded chair designed 
for comfort and beguilement. I began to criti- 
cize her cloth gown. 

“Yes, it is an odious thing,’’ she said. “ I’ll 
never go to that man again. Since the Duchess 

of Y patronized him he’s so puffed up he 

doesn’t care what he gives ordinary customers. 


Vanity! 35 

And his prices are ruinous. When I com- 
plained of this gown he said my figure was out 
of proportion. Did you ever hear such inso- 
ence ? ” 

“ Your figure seems perfect,” I said. “ Per- 
haps the waist is a trifle too — too — ” 

“ My dear creature, not too large ? For 
goodness, sake don’t say that ! ” 

‘ Oh ! no. . . . Just the reverse. I was about 
to suggest you should not lace quite so tightly.” 

“ Tightly ! I assure you my corsets are ab- 
solutely loose^ and this gown slips about me . . . 
it’s no fit at all. Oh ! don’t say I look tight- 
laced like Mrs Wiltshire. She boasts, you 
know, that she has the smallest waist of any 
woman in London. Of course, you know her 
by sight ? ” 

“Who does not ? She makes me feel sick. 
I always think she’s going to break in half.” 

“ I’m so glad you don’t admire her. It’s 
really too wonderful to be — nice. They say 
she sleeps with a steel belt round her.” 

“ What does she gain by such penance ?” 

“ Admiration and envy.” 

“ Not from any sensible person— of that I’m 
sure.” 

“ My dear Madame Frou-Frou, who cares 
about being sensible in society ? Unless, of 
course, they go in for fads like Lady Glas- 
gow and the Duchess of Siltshire and her set 


36 Vanity! 

— Shetland industries and Scotch plaids and 
factory girls and things of that sort ! They’re 
not in my line, thank goodness 1 But to re- 
turn to business. Can you make me a walk- 
ing dress in a couple of days ? ” 

“ Certainly. Will you choose the material 
now ? ” 

“ I may as well. What a treat it is to find 
some one with leisure. Now, I wonder if I 
could trust you to dress me without any bother 
on my own part ? I’m not quite sure of my 
own taste. My husband always says I wear 
too gaudy colors. But Captain Calhoun — a 
friend of ours, a great judge of dress — says I 
always look a picture, so I don’t know who to 
believe. What would you say ? ” 

“ I don’t like that scarlet against your hair.” 

“ It is rather audacious — that was the Con- 
duit Street people’s idea ... to recall the 
waistcoat, you see.” 

“ And that is altogether wrong. I would 
give you black cloth and sapphire velvet.” 

“ It sounds rather nice. And I’ve lovely 
sables.” 

“ The very thing. Toque to match, of 
course. ” 

‘‘Yes. Will one fitting do ?” 

“ I think so.” 

I rang the bell, and ordered Miss Jacks to 
come down to take measurements. 


37 


Vanity! 

“Waist— twenty inches,” she began. 

I stopped. “ That will never do, you know,” 
I said. “Take my advice— let out to twenty- 
two, or three. You won’t look any larger, and 
the fit will benefit ever so much — no strain.” 

She gave a sigh of relief. “What a sensible 
creature you are. How I shall bless you ! 
But are you sure I won’t look clumsy ?” 

“ On the contrary, you will have elegance 
and grace as well as comfort. The way I cut 
my gowns makes your actual waist look quite 
one inch smaller than it is, but I insist on 
proportion. With your bust and hips your 
waist could not look large. Fm sure you’ll 
be satisfied when you see yourself in the 
gown.” 

“Well, Fll trust you,” she said. “But, 
mind, don’t breathe to a soul what the meas- 
urement actually is! Mrs. Fancourt and Lady 
Jocelyn are coming to you, and we are deadly 
rivals. If you’d make them let out their waists 
posterity would have much to thank you for ! ” 

I smiled, and promised to do my best. 
Almost on the promise the two ladies in dis- 
cussion were announced. 

The three greeted each other as dear friends, 
and then commenced that shibboleth of names, 
expressions, hints and scandals which only 
the initiated may interpret. 

But I was secretly elated, Lady Jocelyn 


38 Vanity! 

ordered two gowns, and Mrs. Fancourt wanted 
a dinner dress of ruby velvet and sable. She 
was a handsome brunette with large dark eyes 
and a bad skin. To atone for Nature’s defects 
she had called in liberal aid from Art, but in 
common with most Englishwomen, she made 
Art an advertisement instead of a suggestion. 
The red and white were patent to the general 
gaze, and the curved lashes had been too liber- 
ally darkened. I wondered her maid could 
have allowed her to go out so highly decorated. 

I was glad when they took themselves off. 

I at once set about cutting out Lady Farring- 
don’s bodice, and gave full instructions to skirt 
and sleeve hands as to their respective duties. 

“ It must be finished and delivered to-mor- 
row night, mind, without fail. Every piece 
of work I promise has to be ready when prom- 
ised. It is my principal rule and on no ac- 
count to be broken.” 

The staff acquiesced meekly, and I left them 
to their work. 

More customers in the afternoon. Among 
them an elderly dowager with a plain attrac- 
tive face. She was a very great personage and 
came to order a Court gown also for the March 
Drawing-room. 

“ I have a dispensation, owing to bronchial 
troubles,” she infqrrqQd me, “ I want it cut <k 


39 


Vanity! 

very narrow square and sleeves to the elbow. 
It is cruel having the Drawing-room at this 
time of year. Even furs and hot bottles don’t 
keep out the cold.” 

“ A velvet train, I suppose,” I suggested. 
“ I have a beautiful shade of pansy. I should 
suggest lining it with pale yellow, and the pet- 
ticoat yellow also. Have you your own lace ? ” 

“ Yes ; my maid will bring it. Of course 
you’ll be very careful ; ” and I promised faith- 
fully. 

She moved about, examining things with 
evident curiosity. 

“ What is your real name ? ” she asked at 
length. “ Of course Frou-Frou is only for 
business ?” 

“ Yes,” I said. “ Costello is my name— Mrs. 
Costello.” 

“A widow ? ” she inquired. 

“ Yes,” I said briefly. 

Seeing I was not inclined to be communica- 
tive, she confined herself to instructions and 
orders, until I was weary. 

I took half an hour’s rest before dressing for 
the theater. I was wise enough to know that 
neither cosmetics, paint nor washes are half 
as good a remedy for fatigue as Nature’s re- 
storative. A douche of cold water when I 
arose made me feel as fresh as ever. 

Di’s brougham^ was at the door at half-past 


40 


Vanity! 

seven, and she ran up-stairs to see me and hear 
the news of the day. 

She opened her eyes when she heard of two 
Court gowns. She knew my old dowager very 
well. “A dear, unsophisticated old thing,” 
she described her. “Always administering 
charities and going to missions. But not an 
idea about dress, and will wear her hair like 
Mrs. Gladstone. I’ve seen her feathers hang- 
ing over her nose and she smiling in serene 
unconsciousness. She’s going to present a 
daughter or niece, I believe, otherwise she 
avoids Drawing-rooms. What made her come 
to you ? ” 

“ I don’t know. She didn’t say.” 

“She’s an excellent customer and has any 
amount of influence. ... So you’ve had a 
busy day. You look none the worse for it. 
What it is to be young ! ” 

She sighed and glanced at herself. Di is 
forty, so she allows. She was wearing black 
velvet, with a great deal of jet, and one large 
pink rose nestled in the lace at her breast. 
She was still a very handsome woman, but her 
'premiere jeun esse was over. 

“You think I’ll do ? ” I questioned, glancing 
at the shell-pink gleams of my lovely satin as it 
shone through creamy tints of lace and chiffon. 

“As if you weren’t woman enough and 
artist enough to know that yourself ! ” she 


Vanity! 41 

answered. “ If I weren’t fond of you I’d be 
envious. Tell me is that ripple in your hair 
— natural ? ” 

“ Perfectly. When it’s undone it all curls.” 

“ Enviable woman I Take care of yourself, 
my dear. Those charms don’t last forever. . . . 
And now we’d better start. I suppose it will 
take ten minutes to get to the theater ? ” 

I gathered up fan and gloves, and she threw 
my cloak over my shoulders. 

“ There are our men,” she informed me as 
the carriage drew up before the entrance. 

I was conscious of a tall figure and a short 
one advancing to meet us. There was a hur- 
ried introduction. Then we moved off to our 
box. The curtain was just rising, and all the 
house was in darkness as we took our seats. 
I turned my attention to the stage, and was soon 
absorbed. Not till the curtain fell did I bestow 
any notice on my companions. 

Then I glanced back and saw Burke Ma- 
honey’s blue eyes watching me. So this was 
the cynic, I thought, and proceeded to test his 
conversational powers. 

“What do you think of the piece?” I 
asked. 

“ It is like a hundred others I’ve seen. 
English art is only copy or adaptation. 
There’s no originality in it.” 

“That is quite a critic’s phrase,” I said. 


42 


Vanity! 

“ The question is what is originality. A dram- 
atist can only play on the time-worn strings of 
love, jealousy, hate, revenge. And Fm sure the 
audience wouldn’t understand anything else at 
a theater.” 

“ They’re not given the chance. No one 
takes the trouble of educating them. A play 
that is execrable from the point of art has been 
drawing full houses for the last three months 
simply because the hero dashes on the stage on 
a real horse 1 And when the horse once gave 
a genuine kick, not set down in his part, how 
the ‘ gods ’ howled and yelled with delight.” 

“ But that proves my argument. They want 
only what they can understand. It would be 
a long and thankless task to train them to new 
appreciation, Ibsen and the Independent 
Theater don’t pay.” 

“ No. The destruction of art is the public’s 
joy. They always hail the blot on the picture 
with enthusiasm — I suppose because they can 
understand it. Popular tunes are a success 
because they’re not music, and popular plays 
are not art, and popular books are not litera- 
ture. The British public is a dull ass who 
loves to have his ears tickled. In reality they 
should be flayed with nettles.” 

He said all this in a rich, melodious voice, 
and his face was as grave as a clergyman’s over 
his sermon. 


43 


Vanity! 

I wondered if he really meant it. 

“You write, don’t you ?” I asked. 

“I do. It’s a sorry business, journalism, 
and what is good in it women are doing their 
best to destroy. They worry editors, vulgarize 
interviews, turn views into a hash of person- 
alities, attempt to criticize what they don’t un- 
derstand, and take miserable pay, and put up 
with any amount of insults for the honor of 
airing ‘ I’m on such and such a journal.’ ” 

“ How very hard you are on women.” 

“ Because I like them in their own place — 
home, or society, or scenes of amusement. 
But when it comes to elbowing them in Fleet 
Street, listening to their wretched type-clicking 
in every place of business one goes to, crowd- 
ing with them for ‘ outside ’ places on busses 
in summer, and fighting for an inside one in 
winter — faugh 1 ” 

“ You are no true son of Erin,” I observed. 
“They are nothing if not chivalrous.” 

“ One can be chivalrous to the right wo- 
man,” he answered, and so eloquent a glance 
swept over my face that I was well assured he 
had no fault to find with this particular orna- 
ment to her sex. 

Then the curtain went up once more and 
our talk ended for a time. 

The supper was a gr^at success. Burke 


44 Vanity! 

Mahoney and I became great friends. When 
he learnt I too claimed Irish descent, he 
dropped much of his cynicism and became a 
natural, genial human being. He showed great 
interest in what he called “ my little ven- 
ture.” 

I could see, however, that he was less hope- 
ful than Wildash. Perhaps he knew more of 
Jews and money-lenders, and the disastrous 
results of high interest on borrowed capital. 
However, I was in too good spirits to look upon 
affairs in anything but a hopeful frame of mind, 
and lobster salad, chicken cutlets and cham- 
pagne had never seemed so enjoyable. 

Di flirted discreetly with her little man, 
who seemed to know all the social celebrities 
by sight and pointed out several “ emanci- 
pated ” beauties supping with kindred souls, 
while their husbands were otherwise engaged. 
Also various husbands enjoying themselves 
with companions more noted for amiability 
than strict propriety. 

It was all very amusing, if not exactly moral. 
Burke Mahoney declared he was furnished 
with various spicy “ pars ” for his society col- 
umn — where he only mentioned people by 
initials, and skimmed the thin ice of probable 
divorce scandals in a manner as ingenious as 
it was cruel. 

I could gibbet them as high as Haman, did 


Vanity! 45 

I please/’ he said once. And there was some- 
thing in his face and voice so hard and pitiless 
that it set me wondering what private wrong 
was lending bitterness to the sting of his wit, 
and souring a natural good temper. 


46 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER V. 

Feb. 5th. — A letter from Wildash this 
morning. 

He entered fully into the subject of “ ultra- 
chic/’ and sent me some designs of his own. 
One was so exquisite I felt sorry our own lovely 
and exclusive Princess could not see it. She 
is an authority on the art of dressing and a 
notable example of good taste. However, 
it would be a satisfaction to know that her 
eyes would rest upon this chef-d'oeuvre, and 
perhaps approve it. 

I made an estimate of the cost of this gown 
and found it far exceeded my limit. But I 
was about to stake future reputation and suc- 
cess. I could not stick at trifles. It should 
be made and executed, and Lady Farringdon 
must please herself as to remuneration over 
and above the specified price. I worked hard 
as the time drew near. Every stitch of that 
gown was under my supervision. 

It was a dream of beauty — a shimmering 
mass of silver and lace, and the richest pearl- 
hued satin. The train fell from both shoulders. 


Vanity! 47 

and was cut open to the waist to show the 
contour of the figure. I knew my Juno's 
Titian head and beautiful skin would carry it 
off magnificently. 

On the appointed day I myself went to 
dress her. She was somewhat tired and cross, 
having had to rise at eight in order to have her 
hair dressed. When I arrived her maid was 
removing the camelline from her throat and 
neck previous to polishing the skin with cham- 
ois leather. Her face was not yet made up. 
I had entreated her to leave that to me. 

Fancy having to pickle oneself like this at 
such a time of day,” she said pettishly. “ And 
who could look anyway decent facing a March 
wind, and all one’s skin going into goose-flesh 1 
And oh ! my dear creature, did you think of 
the bouquet ? It hasn’t come yet.” 

“ I brought it myself on the way,” I an- 
swered quietly, as I turned to the dressing-table 
for the “make-up.” 

The maid, a somewhat supercilious French 
damsel, watched me critically. 

“ Madame looks too pale for all that white,” 
she observed. 

“ Not at all,” I answered. “ You must al- 
ways allow for a natural touch of color coming 
up. Heat, excitement, crowd, all will have their 
effect. If she goes in like a peony she will 
come out like a poppy. That faint blush-rose 


48 Vanity! 

is exquisite. And if it deepens it will only be 
more becoming.” 

“ Let me see/’ said miladi herself, and 
studied her face critically in a hand-glass. 

“You are right,” she said gratefully. “I 
am a perfect work of art, I know, but at least, 
it is art. Felicie always overpaints me. I 
look like a dairy maid generally. How beau- 
tifully you have done it. Now — will it last ? 
Mind there’s five weary hours still before me ? ” 
“You needn’t be afraid,” I said, and then 
we turned our attention to other matters. 

Heavens 1 What a business that toilet was ! 
I’m thankful it will never be my fate to attend 
a Drawing-room. The innumerable details — 
from feathers to shoe-buckle. The arranging 
of dress and train, and jewels, and lace. The 
weary hours, the inevitable fatigue even before 
the long, slow drive, and longer waiting, to be 
succeeded by fight and push and struggle for 
the barriers. Well— let us hope the game is 
worth the candle of energies, animosities and 
indignities burnt at the playing of it 1 

My “ work of art ” looked wonderfully lovely 
when finished. Her tall full figure showed to 
its best in this semi-regal attire of flowing train 
and waving plumes. Her skin shone like 
polished marble under its glittering pendant 
of pearls and diamonds. A faint flush of ex- 
citement gave her face quite a natural tint, her 


49 


Vanity! 

large violet-blue eyes sparkled under their 
carefully darkened lashes, and her full scarlet 
lips gave warmth and color to the whole 
countenance. 

She was eminently satisfied with herself, 
and made me come down-stairs to be intro- 
duced to her husband. He was a mild in- 
offensive person, twenty years older than her- 
self, who was supposed to be of great service 
to his “party.” His title was comparatively 
new, and his great grief was that he had no 
son on whom it might devolve. With him 
was the “ family friend ” Lady Farringdon had 
mentioned — Captain Calhoun — a strikingly 
handsome man with that languid air of bore- 
dom which society deems well-bred. Close 
upon our heels was announced a certain Lady 
Henley, who was to accompany “ Juno ” to the 
Drawing-room. She made an admirable foil 
to my work. She was short and stout. Her 
dress was black velvet and purple satin, and 
she carried an inartistic mass of purple 
orchids. 

“ I never saw you look so well ! What a 
gown ! ” she exclaimed half enviously. 

“ It will be hard to beat you, Cissie,” mur- 
mured Captain Calhoun, pulling his mus- 
tache and surveying her with languidly ap- 
proving eyes. 

“Who made that?” asked Lady Henley, 
4 


5o Vanity! 

putting up long-handled glasses and staring 
critically at the toilet. 

“ Behold the artiste,” smiled Lady Farring- 
don, turning to me. “ Madame Frou-Frou is 
an artiste,” she went on, “ a lady who is devot- 
ing her talents to the benefit of her fellow- 
creatures. You must visit her studio — it is 
really that. She has the most exquisite things 
in London, and, what is better, knows how to 
employ them.” 

“ I shall certainly pay you a visit,” said Lady 
Henley, with a discontented glance at her own 
heavy and unbecoming gown. 

“ Rose & Allison did me, and they are most 
dictatorial. One can’t say a word — and so 
horribly dear — not that one minds paying 
when the result is satisfactory ; but this — ” 
She took up her heavy train bordered with 
funereal feathers. “ Now, does it suit me, I 
ask you ? 

“Certainly not. Too heavy, and too dark,” 
I said frankly. “ The satin should have been 
of lighter violet, and the train lined with it.” 

“ Ah ! I see you understand. You shall 
make my next gown if I ever go again. I 
always declare I won’t till they hold them at a 
civilized hour, and a decent time of the year. 
There’s a fog creeping up now enough to 
choke one. It’s all very well for Her Maj- 
esty, who has only to move from one room to 


Vanity! 51 

another, but if she had a long, cold drive, and 
a dreary wait in weather like this, I wonder 
what she’d think of Drawing-rooms ! ” 

“ Is it time to be off ? ” asked Lady Farring- 
don, with a glance at the clock. 

“ Fm afraid it is,” announced Captain Cal- 
houn, taking up a wrap lined with white fox fur 
and carefully enshrouding her lovely shoulders. 

“ You’ll be here to tea? A lot of other pea- 
cocks are coming in ? ” she asked him. 

I noticed a glance, a whisper, which let me 
somewhat “behind the scenes.” Then he 
assured her languidly he would try to come if 
he could get away from some duty or other. 

The two women gathered up their trains, 
gave an envious glance at the warm comfort 
of the room they left behind them, and passed 
through the hall and down the crimson-car- 
peted steps to the waiting carriage. The door 
banged, a crowd of butcher-boys and nurse- 
maids gazed enviously after it. Then I 
turned away from the window and asked if a 
hansom might be called for me. 

“ Won’t you have a glass of wine, a sand- 
wich, or something?” asked Sir John, fussily. 
“You’ve been here hours, and had no lunch- 
eon. Everything is topsy-turvy on these 
Court days.” 

I accepted the wine and a biscuit, for I was 
really tired and faint, and the old baronet 


52 


Vanity! 

trotted about and opened the sideboard him- 
self, and made himself needlessly fussy over 
my comfort. Captain Calhoun stood by, 
watching me out of a pair of sleepy brown 
eyes. 

“ I say, are you really a dressmaker ? ” he asked, 
dropping into a chair beside me. “You don’t 
look it, you know ; as tip-top as any of ’em. 
But women do such extraordinary things now- 
adays.” 

I laughed. “ Yes, I’m in very good com- 
pany,” I said. “ There’s a countess and a 
duchess in the same street, and a ‘ smart ’ tea- 
shop kept by a well-known society woman op- 
posite to me. Only I’m afraid philanthropy 
is less my master than necessity.” 

“ Awh ! shouldn’t have thought so. Well, 
anything I can do I will. Know heaps of 
women, you see, and they’ll all flock if one 
leads the way. But Lady Farringdon is a first- 
rate advertisement, and you’ve turned her out 
in first-rate style too. I must say that.” 

“ I’m very pleased you approve,” I said de- 
murely. “ Naturally one values a man’s opinion 
on such a subject. But I thought you would 
have liked more color, more show.” 

“ I ? Hate it — hate it, I assure you. She’s 
a bit too fond of showy things herself. If 
you’ll tone her down you’ll win my lasting 
gratitude.” 


53 


Vanity! 

I wondered which I was to believe— her dec- 
laration that he approved her taste, or his 
that he was offended by its somewhat daring 
fantasies. 

I foresaw I was to learn a great deal while I 
dressed great ladies. 


54 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER VI. 

The March Drawing-room brought me in as 
much work as I could possibly desire. Strange 
to say, one of the leading fashion papers gave 
a full-page illustration of my two gowns, and 
voted Lady Farringdon’s the most chic and 
tasteful worn on that occasion. 

She told me the Princess had murmured 
“ exquisite " as she bent before her gracious 
loveliness, and after that I looked for Fortune 
and Fame with eager hope. If only checks 
had poured in as lavishly as orders I should 
have been quite contented ; but while I had to 
be constantly handing out ready money for 
weekly wages, for materials, or trimmings at 
big shops, for rent and taxes and repairs, 
and the thousand-and-one expenses of my 
establishment, none came in to me, and Abra- 
ham's rate of interest was very high. 

The entries in my diary were somewhat 
alarming, but Di assured me this was only the 
usual experience of a first year. I should be 
smoothly floated ere another came round. (I 


Vanity! 55 

will not take those entries in detail. Only use 
them as I have need.) 

One of them brings me to a somewhat awk- 
ward occurrence. It happened shortly after 
that eventful Drawing-room. If I had a late 
“ fitting” or appointment I always ordered tea 
to be brought up to the room where my 
customers waited, or were received. 

About five o’clock one dull afternoon, Lady 
Farringdon arrived. She was accompanied by 
Captain Calhoun, and they were both shown 
up into the waiting-room by the page boy. I 
was in the workroom at the time, and I suppose 
five or ten minutes must have elapsed before I 
went down-stairs. 

As I entered he was speaking very earnestly. 
He was standing by the fireplace. She was 
lying back in her favorite low chair. The 
room was all dusk and shadowy, lighted only 
by fire gleams, and fragrant with the scents of 
hyacinth and narcissi which filled vases and 
flower bowls in every available nook. 

“Ask her,” the Captain was saying. “ You 
may be sure she has her price like the rest of 
’em.” 

I approached, and there was an embarrassed 
silence. I thought they must have been speak- 
ing of me. But serene unconsciousness was 
in my expression and accent. 

“ You are all in the dark ! ” I exclaimed, 


56 Vanity! 

and touched the button of the electric light. 
Rosy warmth flooded the room immediately, 
and “ Juno’s ” ruddy hair and rich tints shone 
from out that harmonious background with 
quite enchanting charm. 

“You will have some tea, won’t you?” I 
urged. 

“ How well you do things, Mrs. Costello,” 
drawled the Captain. “ I was just saying I 
had never seen such a charming room. No 
wonder your visitors like dropping in. Lady 
Farringdon declares she positively lives here 1 ” 

I laughed. “ Have you come on business 
to-day?” I inquired. 

“ Yes, I want another gown,” she answered. 

I turned towards the tea-table. In my heart 
I wished she would pay — even something on 
account for those she had had. But I could 
not imperil my reputation by seeming to want 
money. I brought her some tea, and Captain 
Calhoun handed her cakes and wafers of bread 
and butter, remarking that he never touched 
anything before dinner except a sherry and 
bitters and a cigar. In glancing at my diary, 
I discover here an entry — “ Chartreuse'' 

I remember now that that same evening a 
case of various liqueurs arrived for me, enclos- 
ing a card with “ Captain Calhoun’s compli- 
ments.” 

On subsequent occasions, when ladies were 


Vanity! 57 

accompanied by friends of the male persuasion, 
I had liqueurs brought in as well as tea. 


From my diary. 

Jidy 1 8th. — The season is nearly over and I 
have had my hands full with orders. So far 
“Frou-Frou” has caught on. But alas 1 
Frou-Frou’s finances are in a deplorable con- 
dition. This morning there arrived to me an 
American millionairess. Everything about 
her spelt “ dollars,” and everything she said 
glorified them. I heard more about oil springs, 
mines, railway contracts and cattle exporting 
than I had even dreamt of in the whole course 
of my existence. 

She was a big, heavy person with gray hair 
carefully coiffured^ and a lovely young daughter 
who had been introduced at the last Drawing- 
room of the season owing to the unlimited in- 
fluence of the aforesaid dollars. She told me 
so much of her family history, position and 
ambitions that I was fairly bewildered. 

“ I’m not quite happy in my mind,” she ob-' 
served to me. “ I’ve a notion I came over i 
bit too late for the season and got fixed in a 
wrong set. Our Consul did his best, but 
Josephine swears that old Lady Fitzduff, who 
introduced her, was only a scheming old ad- 


58 Vanity! 

venturess, and that everyone ‘in the know’ 
guesses it was a mere matter of dollars. My I 
you should have heard that girl give your 
British Court away ! I just screamed and so 
did her father. She asked a real duchess at 
the Drawing-room why the Queen didn’t con- 
tract with Gunter for ices. She knew he’d do 
’em for threepence a head, just to get into the 
Palace, and she spotted ever so many holes in 
the damask, and gilt off the chairs, and swore 
half the diamonds were paste. My husband 
is next richest man to Vanderbilt~he is so — 
and the States knows it. Any one in Amurrca 
would tell you that Mark Aurelius B. Peck is 
just a four-horse concern and no pumpkins ! 
And at our ball (we live in Grosvenor Square, 
you know), well, though the Prince couldn’t 
come, his brother did, and some of his rela- 
tions by marriage, and didn’t they open their 
eyes at the cotillion presents — thirty thousand 
dollars went in them alone. We can show you 
folks how to do a thing, you bet.” 

“Do you happen to want any gowns?” I 
asked somewhat brusquely. 

“ I guess I do. You dress Lady Farringdon, 
don’t you ? ” 

“ I have that pleasure.” 

“ I was told so. They say, next to your 
Princess, she’s the best-dressed woman in 
London. She’s certainly stylish. She told 


Vanity! 59 

me to come to you. I’ve tried Jay, and Rus- 
sell & Allen, and Kate Reilly, and Mrs. Aber- 
croft, and now Fm going to see what you can 
do. You can have cash down if you like, but 
I must have my say, and as for trimmings, wal, 
I do like them sumptuous. Now, I want a 
dinner-gown — white satin ; a reception one- 
orange and black ; orange suits me real smart, 
and two for Cowes regatta, and hats to match. 
Then, there’s my daughter Josephine ” — 

In the pause that followed I heard the vel- 
vet curtains behind me swept back'. Some 
one entered and put me aside with an air of 
authority. 

“ Pardon me, madame, did I hear you say 
you required some dresses ? ” 

I looked at the intruder with astonishment. 
It was Wildash. 

“ I guess you did, young man,” answered 
my new customer. “ Say, are you in this 
business too ? You look smart set up 
enough.” 

“ My appearance has nothing to do with the 
present question,” he answered haughtily. “ I 
came in to say that this establishment is con- 
ducted on very different lines to what you im- 
agine. We do not allow our customers to 
dictate to us what they will or will not have. 
We cannot imperil our reputation by their bad 
taste or ignorance. If you wish us to dress 


6o 


Vanity! 

you, we will do so, but you must have abso- 
lutely no voice in the matter.” 

If Mrs. Mark Aurelius B. Peck’s astonish- 
ment was half as great as my own, it must 
have been hard to beat. 

“ I — I beg your pardon, sir, but I thought 
it was only people like Worth and Felix who 
had the authority — ” 

“ Madame, I am a far greater authority than 
Messieurs Worth or Felix. I am the designer 
of costumes worn by empresses and queens. 
I dictate — what these people carry out. I 
have been too much occupied with my Paris 
business to attend to this one as I should wish, 
but I am about to concentrate my energies on 
it now.” 

He glanced at me and gave me a significant 
flash of his audacious blue eyes. I was too 
amazed to do more than stand listening to the 
dicussion. 

He took out his watch. 

“ Ten minutes is all I can spare 3 ^ou, mad^ 
ame. How many gowns do you wish to 
order ? ” 

“ Four,” she faltered, and enumerated them 
again. 

He took out a note-book and jotted some 
items hastily down. 

“ One reception, one dinner, two for Cowes. 
Nothing for Goodwood ?” 


Vanity! 6i 

“ No-o, sir,” she stammered, all her bounce 
and consequence effectually quenched. 

“ Thank you. Then will you walk across 
the room ? ” 

She was much too nervous and upset to do 
this with any sort of ease, and when she turned 
he shook his head mournfully. 

“ Your figure is impossible, but, of course, 
you know your own defects. I need not de- 
scribe them. We can only do the best pos- 
sible. Your waist is ridiculously pinched. 
You must go to our corsetiere. I will give you 
her address. Let her measure you for our 
Patent Irrational Corset. As for the materials, 
I think you had a preference for white satin. 
That is out of the question. No, pray don’t 
interrupt he held up a peremptory hand 
— “ my time is valuable. Black satin is what 
you must wear — black slashed with orange, as 
you have a preference for that color. For 
Cowes navy-blue, and black and white. Din- 
ner — black lace and diamonds. Of course 
you have diamonds ? ” 

“ Diamonds ! ” she bridled. “ Wal, now, 
that’s a joke, and my husband a millionaire.” 

“ I suppose that means you’d have them as— ' 
as paving-stones if you could bear the weight. 
I’ll call and see what you must wear with this 
black lace. One touch of scarlet— no more, 
if your life depended on it.” 


62 Vanity! 

He closed the note-book. 

“Cash is our rule for a first order. Two 
hundred guineas for the reception gown, 
seventy-eight for the lace dinner dress, fifty 
guineas each for the Cowes costumes, includ- 
ing hats and sunshades. Thank you, madame. 
Madame Costello will arrange a morning to 
fit you, but not till after your visit to Madame 
Juliette, our corsetiere” 

He went to the door and opened it. 

“ Wrothesay," he called, “ show this lady to 
her carriage.” And with a bow that held the 
grace of a courtier he ushered the amazed 
millionairess out of the room. 

As the door closed I sank down in the 
nearest chair. 

“What on earth,” I gasped — 

He broke into sudden laughter. “ Fm afraid 
I astonished you — allow me to explain.” 


Vanity! 


63 


CHAPTER VII. 

He glanced round the room, drew the 'por- 
tieres, then came back and took a chair. 

“ Dear Mrs. Costello, I know I ought to 
apologize, but I couldn’t stand hearing that 
vulgar person bully you. If you want your 
business to be a supreme success, you must 
take the high hand with your customers— re- 
duce them to powder, so to speak. A woman 
will bully her husband, torment her lover, in- 
sult her inferiors, snub or betray her friends, 
but she will lick the dust off her dressmaker’s 
shoes in order to procure an original gown, or 
be pronounced the best-dressed woman of her 
set. It is ignoble, but then, your society dame 
has no line feelings. The world is her god, 
and the world exacts the lowest form of hom- 
age. But now to business. ... I have left 
Marchand et Cie. for good. They refused to 
raise my salary, and I have simply made their 
business — made it. Canaille ! . . . They will 
soon find their mistake, so I returned to Lon- 
don in order to”— he looked slightly embar- 
rassed — “ well, you’re a woman of the world, 


64 Vanity! 

Mrs. Costello. I came across a very clever little 
corsetiere in Paris and I thought I’d set her up 
here. I remembered you at once and resolved 
to combine the two businesses. It will do you 
no harm, and be of inestimable benefit to her.” 

“ You seem to take a great deal for granted, 
Mr. Wildash,” I interrupted. 

“Yes,” he agreed smilingly, “I do. That is 
how I get on so well. ^ L'aiidace^ et toujours 
Vatidace ’ — you know that saying ? It has 
been my motto since I was sixteen years old. 
I’m only twenty-six now — so I’ve not done so 
badly.” 

“ But all this—” 

“ Exactly. All this doesn’t explain why I 
took upon myself to interfere with your Ameri- 
can claimant. But 5 ^ou’ll soon know my rea- 
son. I correspond constantly with Mrs. Aber- 
croft. Indeed, I furnish her with many of 
her most original ideas. I heard from her that 
you were getting on well — but not so well as 
you ought. Also, that you were troubled 
about money matters. An idea struck me at 
once. You want a man at your back 1 ” 

“ A man ? ” I echoed. 

“A man like myself,” he repeated, “with 
experience, insight, artistic faculties, and what 
you lack— supreme impudence. People say 
money rules the world, Mrs. Costello— not a 
bit of it— impudence — impudence of speech — of 


Vanity! 65 

manner— of mind. Give me a chance of show- 
ing what I mean, and if your business doesn’t 
become the greatest in London, my name isn’t 
Harry Wildash.” 

“ Do you think my customers will stand be- 
ing spoken to as you spoke to Mrs. Peck?” 

“They’ll have to stand it if they want our 
dresses. And they’ll have to want them.” 

“ But suppose they don’t ? ” 

“ Altogether impossible. I’d stake my repu- 
tation on it.” 

But I still argued. It looked too audacious 
a scheme to enter upon in my present financial 
crisis. 

“ Will you give me a trial ? ” he asked per- 
suasively. “The season’s almost over. But 
they’ll be coming to 5^ou for sea-side gowns 
and country house visiting affairs. I’ll be 
bound I’ll set them talking, and when the au- 
tumn orders come in you’ll see if I haven’t 
proved my words.” 

His eyes were as persuasive as his tongue. 
And it is always dangerous for a woman to 
parley with temptation. There was a certain 
amount of temptation in his offer, if only for 
the amusement to be got out of it and his 
own bright, audacious companionship. So, 
after some more talking and hesitating, I 
finally consented. 

He was to attend every day from eleven till 
S 


66 


Vanity! 

six ; interview customers and arrange orders. 
I was to be comparatively passive, save in the 
matter of cutting and fitting — “ And the 
venus must pay cash down,” he insisted. 
“ Oh 1 I know the objections, and half the 
smart people can’t pay ; but they’ll find the 
money quick enough when it’s the thing to have 
their gowns from you. You shall be to Lon- 
don what Worth was to Paris. Why, queens 
and princesses and all the great ladies of 
Europe fairly trembled at his word, and 
obeyed him like slaves, not because his taste 
was infallibly good (some of his creations were 
odious), but because he had the genius of au- 
dacity. He cared nothing whom he offended ; 
no king was more dictatorial. He was the 
autocrat of Fashion, and Fashion rules Woman, 
and Woman rules the world.” 

“ I thought it was men ?” 

“We have changed all that,” he said airily. 
“Your sex is the salt of the earth. You rule 
the Court, the Boudoir, the Laws and the 
Literature, the Art and Religion of the country. 
But you are also ruled by one god, and that is 
Fashion. It is a foolish god, its feet are clay 
and its head a bladder, but its hands are of 
steel, and never loosen their grip on its fem- 
inine idolaters.” 

“ You seem to have studied the subject.” 

“ I have studied little else. There are some 


Vanity! 67 

things women do infinitely better than men, 
but there are others that men do infinitely 
better than women — when they take the trouble. 
And one of these things is the treating of dress 
as a fine art. Studying color, form, design, 
style. I have done it. But I don’t understand 
the A B C of dressmaking, and I couldn’t cut 
a gown to save my life.” 

“ Do you propose to give me the benefit of 
your knowledge as a partner in the business, 
or what ? ” 

“ I should naturally expect a fair share of 
the profits,” he said modestly. “ But I’ll make a 
conditional arrangement — twenty-five per cent, 
on the first year’s takings — fifty the second — if 
my scheme succeeds, which I’m sure it will. 
Do you agree ? ” 

“ Yes,” I said. “ It’s a risk, but if I go on 
as I’m going I shall certainly fail.” 

“Take the risk then,” he said, with that 
bright smile flashing from eyes and lips. “ I’ll 
be here to-morrow — ten o’clock — I want to ar- 
range this room differently — you don’t mind ?” 

“ Oh 1 dear no,” I said, with a sensation of 
helplessness. “ You may as well do anything 
you like while you are here.” 

“ You say that as if you considered the 
arrangement a very temporary one.” 

“ It depends on how the people like being 
ordered and controlled.” 


68 Vanity! 

“ My dear child—” 

I laughed. 

“ Oh ! you mustn’t mind. That’s my Irish 
way. What was I going to say ? . . . Oh ! 
They like it, I assure you — women, I mean. 
They were intended to be ruled although they 
affirm the contrary. Of course I sha’n’t treat 
them all as I did Mrs. Julius Caesar — what was 
her name ? Well, no matter — Americans al- 
ways have a dozen or so. You can trust me 
to rule with discretion — but it must be rule — 
mind that. And now I’ve taken up your time 
long enough— ril be going.” 

“ About those dresses ?” I asked, rising also. 
“ It’s very easy to say white serge, and black 
braiding, but are you not going to give me a 
sketch of the costume ? ” 

“Yes— I’ll do a design in rough. You’ll 
catch my meaning, I know. A great tub of a 
woman like that wants careful dressing. Great 
Scot 1 she ought to pay. Think of the trouble 
of making her look any way presentable. As 
shapeless as a feather-bed, and a face like a 
full moon with a sick headache.” 

“Well for her she can’t hear you,” I said, 
laughing. 

“ Indeed, Mrs. Costello, if women heard half 
of what men say about them in clubs and 
smoking-rooms, they’d have a good lot of con- 
ceit knocked out of them. Do they suppose 


Vanity! 69 

we like to see them half naked at balls, or 
romping through cotillions, or smoking with us 
after dinner, or aping our dress, our manners 
and our slang. They think it smart and chic 
— but we call it — something very different. 
The cocotte of society is no less objectionable 
to any decent man than her sister of the pave- 
ment — only she is infinitely more expensive 
and has a knack of landing you in the divorce 
court.” 

After he had left I sat for long brooding 
over this new scheme. I counted its possibil- 
ities and its dangers. I felt sure that if it was 
to succeed, this audacious young Irishman 
would be the author of such success. I could 
not put much heart into the matter. I was 
not by nature a bully, and shrank from playing 
the part — even at second hand. But necessity 
is a hard taskmaster, and necessity drove me 
to accept Harry Wildash’s proposal. 

He probably knew society better than I did 
— at least from a French point of view. French 
women are apt to be confidential to their tailors 
and modistes, and other appendages. They 
look upon them as indifferently as they look 
at their furniture. They are necessities, but 
necessities brainless and without fine feeling. 
Having studied in such a school, it remained 
to be seen whether the lessons would have 


70 Vanity! 

fruit if tried in another country, and on other 
pupils. 

Ten o’clock next morning brought my new 
partner in professional attire of frock coat, 
black satin tie and patent leather boots. 
Handsome, alert, well groomed, he was* a 
pleasant as well as an inspiring figure in the 
foreground of my establishment. As early as 
eleven o’clock Lady Farringdon arrived. She 
had also come about Cowes dresses. 

I introduced Wildash and explained the 
situation. He studied her approvingly, 
“ There will be some credit in making for 
you,” he observed. Then — less dictatorially, 
but with the most perfect confidence — he pro- 
ceeded to order her dresses for her as he had 
done with Mrs. Peck. She seemed surprised, 
and cast inquiring glances at me. But I was 
passive — simply making notes of what Wildash 
decided. 

As she was leaving, he suddenly observed, 
“By the bye madame, permit me to say that 
in the interests of my partner and self, all this 
season’s accounts must be settled by end of 
the month. We are going to conduct the busi- 
ness on a more important and exclusive foot- 
ing. Naturally, alterations will be attended 
with considerable expense. I have been look- 
ing over the books and find that your account 
is a very heavy one. Since February you 


Vanity! 71 

have had various gowns— including a Court 
gown. The account will be sent you before 
we undertake your present order." 

She colored under her paint and powder. 
“ I know I must owe you an immense sum," 
she said to me. “ But it will be all right, 
ril send you a check at once, and " — she 
stopped. “What an exquisite gown!” she 
exclaimed, glancing at one of the stands. “ Is 
it ordered ? ” 

“ Yes, madame. It is for the Princess Olga 
— daughter of Prince Malakoff. I used to de- 
sign her gowns in Paris. She will be dressed 
entirely by our firm in London now.” 

“ The Princess Olga ! ” She looked at 
him appealingly. “ Oh ! no wonder it’s so 
lovely. What would you charge to copy it 
for me ? ” 

“ I make it a rule never to copy. I would 
arrange a modified version of it for ninety-five 
guineas. But, excuse my saying so, it really 
would not suit your style. The Princess is 
petite. You are built on grand lines.” 

She smiled graciously. “ I think she has 
the advantage, unless you can design me 
something as effective and original.” 

“ I shall do so with pleasure,” he said, and 
then bowed and withdrew. 

She turned eagerly to me. “ My dear 
creature, what an extraordinary idea ! I am 


72 Vanity! 

more than surprised 1 But he is charming — 
do you think it will work ? ” 

“I hope so,” I answered. “It has been 
rather hard on me to do everything. He is 
very clever, and his taste simply perfect. 
By the bye,” I went on carelessly, “I had a 
visit yesterday from that new American 
millionairess, Mrs. Peck.” 

“Not Mrs. Aurelius B. Peck?” she ex- 
claimed. 

“Yes ; I am to dress her and her daughter.” 

“ Then, my dear, you are in luck. Why, she 
absolutely rolls in money. Her toilet things 
are all set in gold, and she has an umbrella with 
her monogram in diamonds on the handle 1 
And she’s getting her dresses from you ? ” 

“Yes; Mr. Wildash is to design them. I 
must tell you of a very pretty compliment she 
paid you by the way. She said that next to 
the Princess you were the best dressed woman 
in London 1 ” 

“Really!” 

Never did blush more becoming rise to the 
cheek of a girl at some lover’s flattery than 
the rose that mantled the cheek of this seasoned 
woman of society. 

That evening a check arrived paying her 
account in full. Oh! vanity, vanity! Truly you 
are the prime ruler of every feminine heart! 


Vanity! 


73 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Mrs. Aurelius B. Peck arrived in due 
course, having had her figure arranged by 
Mademoiselle Juliette, the little Parisian corset 
maker. 

She had done all that was possible, but that 
is not saying much. The good lady was laced 
so tightly she could scarcely breathe, her neck 
was hung with chains and lockets, and her 
large fat hands were covered with rings. 
Wherever a jewel could be stuck there glittered 
pin or brooch of some sort. Gold bangles 
circled her wrists and gold buckles shone on 
her patent leather shoes. I gazed at her with 
a sense of hopelessness while awaiting Wild- 
ash’s appearance. 

“ My daughter was to meet me here,” she 
observed. “ Ain’t she come ? ” 

“No. Perhaps she will look in later. Your 
designs are ready, madame, and I will have 
your measurements taken presently.” 

I sounded the silver gong and Wildash 
appeared. 

He frowned as he surveyed the large, un- 


74 Vanity! 

graceful figure before him, and I saw her turn 
pale as she watched his face. 

For a moment there was absolute silence. 
Then with a sigh he turned to me. 

“We must do the best we can,” he said in 
French. “ When one arrives at that — it is 
hopeless.’' 

I rang for Miss Jacks. At the same moment 
the door opened, and there came in a tall, 
slim girl with a lovely, mutinous face and 
sparkling eyes. 

“ Why, momma ! ” she exclaimed, “ you 
never do say you’re first ? ” 

“ My daughter,” observed Mrs. Aurelius, 
turning to me, and waving her hand introduc- 
tionally, “ Miss Josephine Marianine B. Peck.” 

“ Rather many of me, isn’t there ? ” inquired 
the young lady. Then her gaze rested on 
Wildash. 

“ Do say ; was it you who put momma 
down so surprisingly ? She told us when she 
got home. Didn’t poppa laugh ! We can’t 
do anything with her home, you know. Not 
that we’d have her different anyway, but it 
keeps things a bit breezy at times. Still, it’s 
her make, and Providence knows his own 
business best. But it was funny. Are you 
going to try your hand on me ? Because I’m 
dead set on havin’ my gowns made here.” 

Wildash looked at her critically. 


75 


Vanity! 

“ Goodwood, or Cowes ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, my 1 I guess we ain’t good enough for 
your swells at the races. Though the Duke 
of Wharfshire did say he’d ask us. P’r’aps he 
reckoned without his duchess — she is stuck 
up — looks at me as if I was a scallyrag ! ” 

“ You may find here and there a soul above 
dollars, even amongst the English aristocracy,” 
observed Wildash, thoughtfully. “ Rare, I 
grant, but still even the worst of us have our 
redeeming points. Now, will you walk across 
the room as gracefully as those high heels will 
permit and I’ll see what I can do for you ? ” 

She stared, then laughed and swept him a 
mocking curtsy. After which she threw her- 
self into a chair, crossed her arms behind her 
head, and swung the aforesaid heels to and 
fro with an audacious display of open-work 
stocking and silk and lace frilling. 

“ Guess I’ll do 6 * 0 ,” she said. “ I’m not 
momma.” 

He bowed gravely. “Good morning,” he 
said, and crossed to the door. 

She gazed blankly after him. “Well, I never 1 
Here, Mr. ... I don’t know your name . . . 
come back. Is this the way you do business ? 
My stars I it’s amazing funny 1 But don’t be 
so short. I’ll do what you want, though 
Worth didn’t ask me to walk, I assure you 
I don’t wobble.” 


76 Vanity! 

She drew up her slender figure and moved 
slowly from end to end of the room. Wildash 
said nothing, but simply drew out his note- 
book, made a few entries, then, with a curt 
“ good morning,” left us. 

Mother and daughter surveyed each other. 
Surprise rendered both wordless for a mo- 
ment, and Miss Jacks’ entrance with measur- 
ing tape and other paraphernalia kept them 
so while I gave the necessary directions. 

“ How many gowns do you need ? ” I asked 
Miss Peck. 

“Ill have two for Cowes,” she said curtly, 
“ and you may fix me up another couple for 
evening as you’re about it. Blue and silver 
for one — white the other. A billowy thing with 
lots of chiffon. What about my waist ? ” 

“ It is quite right,” I said, turning to her 
panting parent whom Mademoiselle Juliette 
appeared to have used with some cruelty. 

I relieved her, and pointed out that the laces 
had been wrongly adjusted. When she was 
more at ease Miss Jacks tried on her pattern, 
and after arranging another appointment I 
dismissed them. 

The morning was full of surprises. At least 
half a dozen new customers came in, all of 
whom had heard of Wildash and were anxious 
to see him. 

It astonished me to note the quickness with 


Vanity! 77 

which he summed up their various character- 
istics. With some he was audacious, with others 
coldly polite, but one and all were treated as I 
never would have dared to treat any woman, 
and he still refused them any voice in the 
selection of their gowns. “You need have no 
fear. It will be quite correct,” he assured them. 
And then followed an avalanche of names and 
titles that silenced all remonstrance. 

“ I never permit my dressmaker to dictate to 
me,” said one prim-looking dowager who wanted 
gowns for an autumn house-party. “ My taste 
is considered perfect. Besides, one must know 
one’s own style best, and it is that alone which 
gives originality to one’s toilet.’^ 

“ I grant that, if you are sure you do know 
your own style,” answered Wildash, coolly. 
“ Judging from your present attire I should say 
exactly the contrary. You look stiff, angular, 
uncomfortable. There is no grace — no dig- 
nity about you. Why, you positively aackle 
with whalebone ; and that jet corselet gives you 
the appearance of Boadicea going to fight the 
Romans.” 

“ Sir ! ” exclaimed the insulted dowager, be- 
coming purple with rage. 

“ I am only giving you my opinion. You are 
at liberty to go elsewhere if you don’t like it. 
Even Princess Malakoff never presumes to 
dictate to me. I have just finished that gown 


78 Vanity! 

there for her. She left the whole matter in my 
hands.” 

The dowager looked at the fairy-like beauty 
of the indicated gown, then at the cool, hand- 
some face of the designer. From these her 
glance traveled to her own reflection in shiny 
moire' and glittering jet. Buckram and whale- 
bone cracked beneath a sigh of resignation. 

She was vanquished. 

The game thus begun went merrily on. All 
the gowns ordered were fitted and completed, 
and, strangest of all, 'paid for. Not in a single 
instance was there a failure. Wildash had, as 
he asserted, a perfect genius for form and color. 
Mrs. Aurelius and her daughter were enchant- 
ed with their Cowes costumes. Certainly the 
American autocrat looked for once presentable, 
and the daughter was so lovely that the various 
society papers chronicled her appearance in 
gushing terms. She wrote me pages on the 
subject of her success. 

“I guess I’m making a splash here,” she 
wrote. “ And I’m not sorry now I took your 
partner’s advice. That yachting gown does 
make some of the girls mad. There’s not such 
buttons in all Cowes. I went on board the 
Prince’s yacht to lunch. Lord Wharfinger took 
me. And H. R. H. was that gracious ! My 


Vanity! 79 

stars 1 I did feel proud that day ! The eve- 
ning gowns are just too perfectly sweet for any- 
thing. I’ll never believe in any one again but 
you. Tell that dear man so. I’m his humble 
slave. Won’t you have a time next season 1 
Every one’s talking about him. They say he’s 
a duke’s son— doing this for a lark. I don’t 
care a red cent whose son he is if he’ll only 
keep on designing dresses for me.— Yours 
gratefully, Josey M. Peck.” 

I showed this to Wildash that evening. He 
had dropped in to share my cutlet and 
savory, and discuss plans for the autumn 
campaign. We were both going for a short 
holiday. He to Homburg— for ideas— so he 
said ; and I to recruit, after the fag and toil of 
the hot summer, at a more primitive and less 
fashionable resort on the English coast. 

He smiled oddly as he read the letter. “ A 
duke’s son — well, she’s a little wide of the mark. 
But not so very far off. I’ve a chance of be- 
coming heir to a baronetcy.” 

I looked up from my plate in astonishment. 

“ Is that true ? ” 

“ Indeed yes. There’s a possible Sir Harry 
Wildash at your service. Two lives— one old 
— one young and feeble— alone intervene. Not 
that I covet the prospect. I’m a Bohemian 
heart and soul. I hate respectability as much 


8o 


Vanity! 

as I hate the ‘ good Christian family.’ You 
know what I mean ? The people with a family 
Bible on a table by the window, and who 
wouldn’t go to a theater for any consideration, 
yet bally-rag the servant if she’s five minutes 
late in the morning, or leaves a bread crumb 
on the carpet. Take a 'bus ride through any 
London suburb and you’ll see them by the 
score. They’re as common as their own red 
brick villas with the garden plot in front and 
the plant in the window.” 

“ It’s a queer world,” I said. 

“ Indeed and it is. What’s the meaning of 
it at all ? I often wonder. And yet we’re 
Christians and civilized, and go to church 
every Sunday (not that I ever do ; I prefer a 
bicycle spin), and look for the millennium and 
the Day of Judgment. Lord, it’s very funny, 
when you think of it 1 Now, these women 
who come here ! Have they souls ? Fancy 
them taken out of a world where they didn’t 
change their gowns five times a day, or gossip 
over tea and bon-bons in each other’s boudoirs. 
Where there were no scandals, no liaisons, no 
intrigues, no Paris, or Monte Carlo, no after- 
dinner card parties for baccarat, or bridge — 
no cotillions, no rivalries. . . . Great Scot 1 
What would they do ? ” 

I leant back in my chair and studied his 
face with some amusement. 


Vanity! 8i 

“ I give it up/’ I said. “ But the puzzle has 
actually made you look grave. It seems odd 
that you should think about such things.” 

“ Oh 1 I’m not so empty-headed as you 
fancy.” 

“You have rather a contempt for women ? ” 

“ Small wonder if I have. Look at the 
specimens we see. And in Paris it was worse. 
It is a satisfaction to think one can live out of 
them, but that doesn’t prevent my despising 
them.” 

“Yet they treat you very well,” I said. 

His eye fell on the letter I had handed to him. 

“ It wouldn’t be bad fun,” he remarked, “ to 
marry that girl.” 

“ Marry ? ” I felt as if I had received a 
sudden shock. An odd sensation crept over 
me. Somehow I had never thought of his 
marrying— of the change it would make in our 
present life — of the inevitable break in this 
pleasant camaraderie, 

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t care for marriage 
as an institution, but it would be a fine revenge 
on society if I did win that girl’s dollars away 
from the needy dukes and impoverished aris- 
tocrats who are hunting her down.” 

I drank off my glass of claret, still oddly 
conscious of discomfort and perturbation of 
spirit. I put it down to the idea of losing a 
partner so enterprising and desirable. 


82 


Vanity! 

He glanced at me as if surprised by my long 
silence. “You look quite pale,” he said. 
“Don’t you like the idea ? Of course I’d see 
you firmly established first. Haven’t I done 
all I promised so far ? ” 

“ You have, indeed,” I said gratefully. 
“You’ve saved me from ruin.” 

“ Oh 1 well, I don’t know about that. You’re 
a plucky woman. You’d have weathered the 
storm somehow. Besides, I’ve really enjoyed 
it. And this is only the beginning. You’ll 
see what next season will do for us.” 

I smiled. “ Us? But if you take a matri- 
monial partnership ? ” 

“ I sha’n’t do that in a hurry. I was only 
joking. I believe I prefer this. Besides we 
hit it off so well— you and I — don’t we ? And 
I’ve always had an idea of a woman friend — 
no humbug or nonsense, you know — just give 
and take — chat and laugh and knock about to- 
gether. I’m perfectly happy, and perhaps the 
Peck dollars wouldn’t make me that. There’s 
a deal to swallow along with them.” 

“ She’s very pretty,” I observed. 

“ Une 'poiipee de modiste. Most American 
girls are like that. And they carry their gowns 
too appreciatively. To be well dressed is 
never to feel one is well dressed. That little 
supercilious, self-satisfied air of Josey Peck’s 
spoils her. It is always calling attention to 


Vanity! 83 

the real lace on her gown, the-real diamonds 
in her buttons. Her extravagances are in bad 
taste, and she won’t allow one to forget it.” 

I began to laugh. 

“ I shall never forget,” I said, “ the way you 
spoke to her mother. I was terrified.” 

“ That shows how little you know of your 
sex. But I often laugh at that scene myself. 
What a humbug I am 1 ” 

He suddenly stretched a hand across the 
table to me. “ Do you believe in me at all?” 
he asked. 

I gave him my own hand, and looked frank- 
ly back into the questioning blue eyes. 

“ Yes-I do.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. Costello,” he said softly. 
“ Some day I’ll tell you — ” 

He broke off abruptly, released my hand, 
and rose from the table. 

I had not the courage to ask what he meant 
to tell me — some day. 


84 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER IX. 

Rest. Change. Peace. 

The splash of waves on shingle, the cool 
breeze of the salt sea. The red-brown cliffs, 
the blue sky melting into the blue waters. 
How beautiful it all is, and how I enjoy it ! 

I came here three days ago, and I have 
spent those days in blissful idleness. 

I left heat and dust behind me. 

The cry of the lavender-seller was in the 
streets. Every self-respecting householder 
had blinds down, or shutters up, and care- 
takers were having a right good time in de- 
serted mansions. I had seen six babies and as 
many matrons at tea in a dining-room in Port- 
man Square, and aristocratic carriages that had 
graced the Row held many stranger freights 
when the horses were out for “ exercise.” 

But for three days I have lounged, bathed 
and slept away the hours in delightful laziness, 
trying to forget the existence of scissors, the 
exigencies of “ cut ” and “ fit,” and pushing 
out of sight the forthcoming troubles of the 
winter season. 


Vanity! 85 

The society papers furnish me with news 
of my fashionable customers. I follow them 
through the winding mazes of foreign travel 
and so-called “ cures.” I see them disporting 
themselves at Homburg and Marienbad, and 
Ostend and Trouville, still pursuing their fly- 
ing fetish Pleasure. Still unable to enjoy ex- 
istence without the excitement of gambling, 
dining, flirting, dancing— and rivalry. 

Thank goodness I have still some simple 
tastes left and can appreciate Nature and peace 
even alone, and with but myself and my vari- 
ous books and journals for company. Better 
company and safer too than our friends at 
“ Bads ” or Kursaals. 

I learn that the Queen is taking donkey- 
drives at Balmoral, and that various Royals are 
trout or salmon fishing in the neighborhood. 
That a sedan chair has been utilized for the 
cotillion. That rich Americans and “amaz- 
ing ” smart women are giving the Prince a gay 
time of it at Homburg during his wife’s ab- 
sence at her girlhood’s home. 

I note that heroines of various causes celebres 
have been whitewashed and reinstated in cer- 
tain sections of society and intend to live 
chiefly abroad. Wise proviso ! And I suffer 
much indignation and annoyance at the pert 
personalities of “ Bat ” and “ Tattle ” of so-and- 
so, who, in common with various “ Myras ” 


86 


Vanity! 

and “ Bellas ” and “ Violantes,” persist in de- 
scribing people of whom they know nothing, 
and furnishing an inquisitive public with the 
information that they looked remarkably smart, 
and wore some fine diamonds (as if these 
penny-a-liners knew the real thing from Paris- 
ian bijouterie). 

Tired of this rubbish, I closed my eyes and 
leant back, listening drowsily to the plash of 
the waves and the sound of children’s voices 
in the distance. 

I was wondering whether I should get tired 
of solitude, tired of this unfashionable little 
coastguard village where there was neither 
pier, nor band, nor any amusement, and which 
only offered health and peace and cheapness 
to its visitors. I had taken two rooms at the 
little hotel on the cliff. At present I was 
the only visitor and naturally was excessively 
comfortable. 

As I lay in the dreamy beatitude of perfect 
rest I became conscious of voices close at hand 
— one languid and betraying mental or bodily 
weakness, the other pleasant, persuasive and 
full-toned. I opened my eyes and, glancing 
up from the tilted umbrella I had stretched 
over my head, saw an elderly woman and a 
somewhat feeble-looking youth. He was lean- 
ing on her arm. His pale face and vacant 
blue eyes met my gaze and then were turned 


Vanity! 87 

indifferently aside. His companion, on the 
contrary, observed me with some attention. 
They passed on and I gave them but the lan- 
guid curiosity one bestows on newcomers at a 
seaside place. 

Then I resumed my meditations until lunch- 
eon time. 

When I entered the coffee-room I saw to 
my surprise that the table next my own was 
occupied by these people. The lady had 
removed her large shady hat and I saw a worn, 
anxious face under thick bands of iron-gray 
hair. She was dressed in black. The boy — 
for he looked nothing else — would have been 
good-looking but for the pallor of his face, 
which melted into the pale tints of his hair, 
and gave him that look of insipidity so often 
noticeable in very fair men. 

I discovered presently they were mother 
and son, and from the extreme attention they 
received at the hands of the waiter, I began to 
think they must be people of importance. 

When the waiter presently answered, “ Yes, 
my lady,” to some remark, I wondered if he 
was giving her more than a mere courtesy 
title. I noted the boy scarcely touched any 
food, but drank claret and water thirstily. She 
seemed greatly distressed by his lack of 
appetite. 

He did not speak much, and his voice was 


88 


Vanity! 

low and languid, so were the movements of 
his hands. He made me think of the young 
man in The Green Carnation, His attitude 
was a pose, and small as his audience was I 
felt he was acting for our benefit. Once he 
caught my eye and favored me with a long 
deliberate stare. Then he began to talk. His 
language was stilted and affected, and his 
would-be cleverness wearisome after the first 
novelty had worn off. But his mother listened 
enraptured. Poor soul ! He was evidently 
the idol of her heart— a very poor and meager 
idol to my thinking. 

When I had hnished my luncheon I retired 
to my own room. It was too hot to go out. 
I took a book and ensconced myself in a basket 
chair in a shady corner of the balcony which 
overlooked the sea. Presently the whiff of a 
cigarette informed me I had a neighbor. I 
glanced up and saw the interesting youth just 
drawing a chair into the adjoining balcony, 
preparatory to enjoying the afternoon in similar 
fashion. 

He smiled faintly as I looked at him. 
‘‘ Have you been staying here long ? ” he in- 
quired. 

“ Only three days,” I answered. 

“Anything to do ? ” 

“Nothing, unless you mean to bathe— or 
row— or fish.” 


89 


Vanity! 

He shuddered affectedly. 

“ Bathe — there^ His glance indicated pub- 
licity. “ Oh 1 no, thanks, not for me. Public 
bathing is the most indelicate of our many in- 
' delicate nineteenth-century amusements.’' 

“ Do you really think so ? ” I exclaimed. 
“Why, I have a boat every morning and take 
a header into the deep and swim back a quarter 
of a mile or so. It is delicious.” 

He surveyed me with his straw-colored 
head a little on one side like a meditative 
bird. 

“ How strong you must be 1 ” he said pathet- 
cally. 

“That is more than you are to judge from 
your looks,” I answered. 

“ Yes, Pm considered delicate. The mater 
does fuss over me so, too. She’s brought me 
here because some old fogy of a doctor told 
her it possessed the finest air in England. 
Just as if they don’t say that of every place 
when they've an interest in the property. He’s 
one of the shareholders of this hotel, and has 
built a bungalow up there.” His glance indi- 
cated a red brick building I had noticed beyond 
the sandhills. 

“ Oh 1 indeed,” I said vaguely. 

“Yes. And the mater thought it would be 
so convenient to have him within call. . . . 
You see my father’s dead, and I come into the 


go Vanity! 

property next year, and she’s tremendously 
anxious about me.” 

I grew interested. “ Are you very deli- 
cate ? ” 

“ So they say.” A curious look came into 
his eyes, and his white hand languidly flicked 
the ash of his cigarette. 

“ It’s a great bore being an only child, and 
an only son. I’d change places with any one. 
I want merely to exist pleasantly. No troubles, 
no worries. Books, wines, cigarettes, artistic 
surroundings, and above all — calm. No one 
understands the beauty of calm nowadays. 
The philosophers did. But society is a series 
of fireworks—bang — fizz — splutter. An endless 
rush, an endless excitement. And they 
think I’ll do the same because I’m born into 
the set. However, I’ve my own ideas.” 

“ May I ask your name ? ” I inquired gently. 

“I’ve a good many. I’m known as Lord 
Ernie to my friends — my father was the Earl 
of Wrexborough. Next year I’ll be that — if I 
live.” 

“Surely there is no reason why you should 
not ? ” I observed. 

His face seemed to grow whiter, and a 
curious dull film gathered over his eyes. He 
made no answer. He threw aside his ciga- 
rette and leant languidly back against his 
cushioned chair. I watched him with some 


91 


Vanity! 

wonder and some fear. Presently his eyes 
opened again. He looked furtively round, and 
then his hand went to the breast pocket of his 
coat. He seemed to have entirely forgotten my 
presence. I watched him curiously, fascinated 
by his look and actions. I saw him draw a small 
case from the pocket. Then he drew back 
his cuff and exposed a thin, blue-veined arm. 
With a swift, sudden movement he applied 
what looked like a glass needle to the exposed 
skin, withdrew it and replaced it in the case. 

I rose hurriedly. “Whatever are you do- 
ing ? ” I exclaimed. 

He gave a guilty start. “ Why — who the 
devil — I beg pardon — I had forgotten you 1 ” 

Then suddenly the film cleared from his 
eyes. The color flushed his waxen cheeks 
and his face looked alive and alert. The 
transformation was marvelous. 

He rose and came towards me. Only a 
railing divided us. “You look a good sort,” 
he said hurriedly. “ Can you keep a secret ? 
Don’t say a word to my mother— she doesn’t 
know. But the stuff keeps me alive. I 
couldn’t do without it. It’s all right. The 
doctor knows. Why, how scared you look.” 

“ It’s— it’s not morphia ? ” I gasped, feeling 
faint and sick as I thought of his youth— his 
prospects and present mad folly. 

“ God bless you ! No. ... I tell you it’s 


92 


Vanity! 

quite safe. Only we don’t tell the old lady 
because it might frighten her. Promise you 
won’t say a word.” 

“Fll act on my own discretion,” I said 
coldly. “ Fve heard a great deal about these 
hypodermic injections. I don’t like them, and 
it seems dreadful to see a boy like you using 
drugs. Do you suffer ? Is there any special 
reason why you should do this ? ” 

He gave a short, caustic laugh. “ Every 
reason. It doesn’t hurt me, and it’s a heaven 
within reach. You’re a woman. . . . You 
couldn’t understand. . . .” 

“ I don’t wish to understand,” I said sharply. 
“ But I know those habits— morphia — opium — 
absinthe drinking — they are the bane of our 
modern day civilization.” 

“ Everything is pardonable that lends pleas- 
ure to life,” he said. “ An existence that is 
purely material — eating — drinking — sleeping — 
how absolutely terrible 1 Any boor is our 
equal. A habit that can lift us into a realm of 
ideal beauty — can give us dreams that no mere 
mortal obtains — is worth any sacrifice.” 

I shuddered. To stand here in the golden 
calm of the afternoon, the blue serenity of sky 
and sea about us and hear such young lips 
proclaim such heresies. It was awful 1 

“ Even the sacrifice of life?” I said at last. 

“ Life is only a phase, a passing moment, a 


93 


Vanity! 

breath on a mirror. Even the clergy preach 
that to us. They are only wise who beautify 
its moments, and let imagination rule their 
passions and their hearts.” 

“ Is that something you have learnt ? . . . 
the cant of a set neither reputable nor use- 
ful.” 

“ Useful ! What a dreadful word, meant 
for clods and money-lenders. My dear lady, 
you have a great deal to learn— yet.” 

He leant forward and his eyes and voice 
grew persuasive. “You won’t say anything to 
my mother ? ” he asked again. 

“ It is none of my business,” I said. “ But 
I give no promise.” 

“ You are too beautiful to be obdurate,” he 
said. “ I shall trust you. Meanwhile, let us 
be friends. This is a small place. We shall 
meet constantly. Perhaps I may convert you 
to my theories of a beautiful existence in a 
commonplace world.” 

“ God forbid 1 ” I ejaculated under my 
breath, as his cool, slim hand touched mine. 

It seemed, even there amidst the warm sun- 
shine, as the touch of death. 


94 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER X. 

With a sudden desire for fresh air, space, 
freedom, I put on my hat and went out. 

This boy and his history had horrified me. So 
young, so old, a slave to an enthralling and 
dangerous habit. A cynic, yet an epicure. A 
diseased mind controlling a frail body. There 
was the essence of tragedy around him. I 
knew and had heard enough of modern youth, 
but I had never come face to face with such 
a specimen. 

The bold sweep of sea and the fresh cool 
breeze seemed doubly delightful after that 
unwholesome atmosphere. The sun was 
veiled by clouds. There was a promise of 
rain or storm in the leaden-colored west, but 
I paid no heed to it, I was too much occupied 
with my own thoughts. 

The touch of heavy rain-drops on my face 
warned me that I was far from shelter. I 
glanced at my watch and found it was close 
on five o’clock. 

Before I reached the hotel the storm burst. 
Peals of thunder resounded ; lightning flashed 


Vanity! 95 

from end to end of the broad horizon line. 
The sea grew black save where the curling 
waves lifted their crest of foam. There was a 
grandeur and beauty about Nature s wrath that 
I could not but admire. Everything looked 
small and puny in comparison, and even 
when I reached the hotel I stood in the en- 
trance watching the process of the storm in- 
stead of going to my own room to change my 
wet gown. The air was hot and sultry. The 
dense clouds, barred with orange and crim- 
son, seemed to touch the sea as it rose and 
swelled beneath, and one sharp rattling peal of 
thunder shook the sky and was followed by a 
flash of light so wide and blinding that invol- 
untarily I stepped within. At the same mo- 
menta piercing scream rang through the house. 

I started and rushed up the stairs. In the 
corridor a group of frightened chambermaids 
and waiters crowded together. 

“What is the matter — who screamed?” I 
asked. 

“ It’s the young gentleman in there,” said 
one of the men. “ He’s been doin' nothing 
else ever since the storm came on. And the 
countess, poor lady, is half distracted. She 
can’t stop him.” 

I walked to the door and knocked sharply. 
I heard stifled groans ; then a voice demanded 
who was there. 


96 Vanity! 

“ Let me come in ; perhaps I can be of 
use,” I answered. 

The door opened, and the white, agitated 
face of Lady Wrexborough appeared. 

“ Come in — if you will,” she said eagerly. 
“ My poor boy is quite hysterical. He can- 
not endure thunder-storms. The electricity 
affects him.” 

I entered and closed the door upon the 
curious group without. 

The young fellow lay on a couch, with a 
rug thrown over him. The blinds and cur- 
tains were drawn as if to keep out the glare of 
the electric flashes. His frame was convulsed 
with shudderings, and he moaned like one in 
abject terror. 

I went up and took his hand. 

“ Come, come, this is childish 1 ” I said. 
“ The lightning can’t hurt you, nor the thunder 
either. The storm is far off and it will soon 
be over. What are you frightened about ? ” 

“ Oh 1 it’s horrible 1 ” he moaned. “ It’s 
torture 1 Those flashes seem to set my brain 
on fire, and every nerve is jarring.” 

“You are weak and ill,” I said soothingly. 
“ Try and control yourself. It can’t last much 
longer. Shall I sit here and talk to you ? ” 

“ Oh 1 do. You are so sensible ; mother 
does nothing but cry.” 

“Well, you must promise you won’t scream 


Vanity! 97 

again,” I said. “You’ve alarmed the whole 
hotel.” 

Another flash, less vivid than before, set 
him trembling and shaking, but he made some 
eflort at self-control. 

For half an hour I sat there beside him, 
holding his hand, now talking soothingly, now 
scolding, as he alternately gave way to weak- 
ness, or attempted to control it. The poor 
old lady sat by us, moaning and coaxing as if 
he were a baby. I could see he was her idol, 
and that all her hopes were bound up in him. 
I scarcely knew which I pitied most. 

As the storm abated and he grew calmer, I 
asked her if he was always aflected in a similar 
manner. 

“ Oh, no ; it is only lately,” she answered. 
“ But his health is sadly impaired. I have 
tried every sort of remedy and had the best 
advice, but nothing seems to do him good. 
I came here because I heard the air was so 
fine. But this storm will do him a great deal 
of harm. His nerves are so highly strung, 
and any shock or worry ought to be avoided, 
so the doctors say.” 

I thought of that secret of his, of the little 
devilish invention hidden in his coat pocket, 
and I wondered if it was my duty to tell her 
what I had discovered. But surely the doc- 
tors knew of his practise, and would have in- 
7 


98 Vanity! 

formed her had there been any necessity. As 
I stood weighing the subject in my mind, he 
suddenly sat up quite calm and composed. 

“ Tm all right now,” he said. “ There’s 
something about you — ” He took my hand 
and looked at it for a moment. “ It has mag- 
netism. It is the healer’s hand,” he said. 
“ You’ve done me good. Mother, hadn’t you 
better ring for tea, and ask Mrs. — ” 

“ Costello,” I informed him. 

“ Mrs. Costello to have a cup. How patient 
you’ve been,” he added gratefully. 

I felt sorry and interested, and yet — uncom- 
fortable. But I stayed on and had tea, and 
his mother unbent from her frozen dignity of 
luncheon time and showed herself very pleas- 
ant and entertaining. Still, the harping on 
one string, and that string “ Ernie,” was rather 
wearisome, and I rose at last and wished them 
good-b3^ They were to dine in their own 
sitting-room, and I was not sorry to hear it. 
I felt I had had quite enough for one day, 
even of a prospective earl. 

I retired to my own room to change my 
dress and write up my diary. 

The evening post brought me a long letter 
from Wildash. His letters were always de- 
lightful— long, chatty, amusing, satirical, bring- 
ing scenes and people before one without 


99 


Vanity! 

apparent effort, as some writers have a knack 
of doing. I sat out on the cliffs facing the 
now tranquil sea, and read it with keen enjoy- 
ment. 

He sketched Homburg and its visitors skil- 
fully for my amusement — touching lightly the 
scandals of the hour — painting the follies and 
rivalries of the gay, frivolous crowd, who 
sipped their water, and chirped their endless 
gossip under the trees, and were so gracious 
to their compeers and so insolent to those who 
“ weren’t in it.” 

I seemed to see that multitude of royalties, 
titles, millionaires and beauties who crowded 
the hotels, and the allees, and watched the 
tennis matches. 

“ The Pecks are here,” he went on. “ You 
should have seen Josey’s astonishment when 
she saw me. Her mother ‘ cut ’ me, in a very 
stupid, blundering way too (I’ll pay her out in 
her next gown for that), but the girl bowed 
and gushed, and was quite friendly. They’re 
not in with any of the best people, and it riles 
the old lady. She sits under atree and glowers 
at the crowd, and covers herself with jewelry 
till she looks like a decorated Christmas tree. 
But it’s all no good. Meanwhile, Miss Peck 
rides or bikes with me in the early mornings — 
and if I wished I could make all the running 
in that quarter. Shall I ?— No. It wouldn’t 


LofC. 


100 Vanity! 

be fair to our bargain— so set your mind at 
rest. 

“ I often wish you were here. I want some 
one to talk to. You know what I mean. . . . 
I’ve got some splendid ideas for our winter 
campaign. Daring — if you like — but chic — 
adaptations of Vienna. The Austrian women 
do dress well. No one can touch them — and 
such figures ! It makes Miss Josey mad when 
I praise other women — so I’m always doing it. 
They’ve bought a house in Park Lane she tells 
me — or rather a lease of one — and are going 
to make a real splash next season. Poor 
things !— If they only knew what birth and 
breeding say of American pretentiousness. 
Why don’t they stop in their own country ? 
They’d be much better off, but there’s no get- 
ting them to believe that, and when one of 
their heiresses does land into our aristocracy 
— by Jove 1 She out-Herods Herod with her 
airs and graces 1 And yet what a difference 
in the real thing when you do see it — ” 

I had read so far by the light of the full 
August moon when a shadow fell across the 
page. I glanced up and saw my young friend 
of the afternoon. 

“ I hope I’m not interrupting you ? ” he said. 

“ Oh I no — I’ve finished my letter. I hope 
you’re feeling better ? ” 

“ Yes— thanks. I’m all right again.” 


lOI 


Vanity! 

He pushed his straw hat to the back of his 
pale gilt head, and gazed dreamily over the 
water. 

“ Do you mind if I smoke ? ” 

“Not at all — I rather like it.” 

“ What a sensible woman you are,” he said, 
seating himself beside me. “ I’ve been think- 
ing so all the evening. Would you mind tell- 
ing me if you’re— married ? I mean if you’ve 
a husband.” 

“ I have no husband,” I said dryly, and con- 
scious of slightly heightened color. 

“I’m so glad. I thought you had an 
owner who’d be turning up. You’re so very 
pretty, you know, and look so young to be a 
widow.” 

I laughed. “ I never heard widowhood de- 
manded any special age for its privilege of 
freedom.” 

“ Of course not. But women like you aren’t 
long left to freedom.” 

“ You must know a great deal about my sex,” 
I remarked sarcastically. 

“ No. I don’t like them — as a rule. They 
seriously interfere with the enjoyment of life. 
They are so exacting and so selfish— and as for 
girls— oh 1 I do hate girls.” 

“ A bad lookout for the future Countess of 
Wrexborough,” I said. 

“That’s the worst of that beastly title. 


102 


Vanity! 

They’ll be worrying me to get married. You’re 
— you’re not an actress, are you, Mrs. Cos- 
tello?” 

“ Certainly not. What made you think so ? ” 

“ You’ve such a style, and dress so well. 
My mother thought you might be one — down 
here for quiet, don’t you know— studying a 
new part. She’s terribly afraid of actresses — 
but I like them — when they don’t talk too 
much. I know Julia Neilson and Mrs. Pat 
Campbell very well. They’re dear things, but 
not a patch on you for style.” 

“ I’m vastly obliged to you for the compli- 
ment,” I said, laughing. 

“ I really mean it. Then you don’t talk shop 
— all actresses do. Can’t help it, I suppose. 
They’ve so many rehearsals, and then the life 
— so limited and self-engrossed.” 

“ Yes. It must be rather monotonous. Be- 
sides, actresses always like every one else to 
know who they are. . . 

“ Do you go into society much ? ” he con- 
tinued after a brief pause. 

“ As much as I care to,” I said evasively. 

“ I don’t. I hate it. I belong to the New 
Siecle Club. We founded it for the culture 
and enjoyment of youth and the evasion of 
social obligations. No one over twenty is 
eligible for election.” 

I thought he was old enough and blase 


Vanity! 103 

enough for fifty, but I merely asked what they 
did at this juvenile institution. 

He smiled enigmatically. “ Oh 1 enjoy life 
with the least trouble, and the highest regard 
for its artistic side. No talent is disregarded. 
Our secretary plays the pan-pipes. It is al- 
most a forgotten art. Yet it takes us back to 
Arcadia to hear him.” 

“A Punch and Judy man would do that for 
you,” I said bluntly. 

“ Oh ! my dear lady 1 ” he exclaimed in a 
shocked voice. “ How dreadful 1 as if there 
could be any comparison 1 ” 

“ Perhaps not as regards the players,” I said, 
laughing. “ But the instruments are the 
same.” 

“ That is the secret of art,” he said. “ To 
glorify what would otherwise be commonplace, 
to lend luster and delight to the incomplete.” 

“Your club must be very efficient, then. I 
suppose you have a great many members ?” 

“At present only twelve,” he said with a 
sigh. “But it is scarcely known yet ; and we 
want our influence to be gradual. It is not a 
sordid affair, based on commercial lines, vul- 
garized by eating and drinking. We subsist 
cheerfully on simple luxuries. We never dine 
— in the accepted term. We have occasional 
banquets — feasts of roses and song — fruits and 
choice wines— winding up with hookahs and 


104 Vanity! 

sherbet. We make an idyl not an orgie of 
life.” 

I rose abruptly. “ The dew is falling and 
you are an invalid. Hadn’t you better come 
in ?” 

“ It is so beautiful here. The repose, the 
peace. Why did you disturb it ? ” 

I felt inclined to tell him I had heard 
enough of his club, and his idyls ; but I only 
said I was tired, and wished him good night. 

I thought I had never appreciated the breezy 
manfulness and bonhomie of Wildash so thor- 
oughly as now. 


Vanity! 


loS 


CHAPTER XL 

A WEEK has passed. Taking generalities in- 
stead of details, I must candidly call it a week 
of “ Lord Ernie.” From early morn to dewy 
eve that estimable youth has been my shadow. 
We drove together, sailed and walked together, 
sat out in the moonlight together, and his 
mother had neuralgia the best part of the time 1 

If I were the designing widow of fiction I 
could have caught my fledgling very easily, 
made him marry me privately, and wake up 
Countess of Wrexborough one fine morning. 
But neither his title nor his broad acres 
tempted me — allied as they were inseparably 
to his miserable little personality and gilt-edged 
conceit. 

The smallness and vanity of the boy’s nature 
were intolerable. I gave him innumerable 
lectures, “and set him down ” as often as pos- 
sible, but this treatment only seemed to make 
him more attached to me. My superb health, 
my love of air and exercise, my fearlessness of 
storm or weather, on land or on sea, were sub- 
jects of incessant marvel to him, I had even 


io6 Vanity! 

talked and bullied him out of his wretched 
habit of drug-injecting, though he suffered 
terribly from the loss. However, I held to the 
case and refused to give it back, and warned 
his valet that I would inform Lady Wrexbor- 
ough if he procured his young master any 
more of the stuff. I found it was cocaine he 
had been using. One day he let out that at 
this precious club of his all the youths used 
some drug or other. It was a horrible and 
disgusting practise. Yet these scions of noble 
houses and heirs to titles and great names 
thought nothing of enfeebling their constitu- 
tions and degrading their manhood and future 
virility by such a loathsome habit. 

Perhaps I have succeeded in making him 
ashamed of it. He appears so now, but I think 
he is too weak for any influence to be lasting. 
When he returns to his old friends he will, no 
doubt, return to his old habits. 

I told Wildash about this boy. His answer 
was peculiar. 

“ Lord Ernie is well known to a certain set 
— a set who are ostracized by the self-respect- 
ing members of society — a set given up to the 
worship of self in every form. They profess 
artistic tastes (save the mark), and think it is 
very wonderful and very original to set all laws 
of decency and self-government at defiance. 


Vanity! 107 

Better an out-and-out blackguard, with the 
strength to sin boldly, than these effete, cor- 
rupt, miserable worms who have crept into our 
fin-de-siecle life, and ruin minds and morals 
with their poisonous follies 1 ” 

I did not say this to Lord Ernie, but I 
dropped occasional hints that seemed to fright- 
en him, and for a day or two I avoided meeting 
or speaking to him, unless in his mother’s 
presence. 

To-night I came across him unexpectedly. 
He was sitting on a rock, in a remote part of 
the beach, gazing abstractedly into the deep 
clear pools of sea water left by the receding 
tide. 

The moon was at its full, and a track of gold 
lay over the wide stretch of waters. Scarce 
a breath of air rippled the shining surface. 
Peace held its own in this world-forgotten nook. 

He looked up and saw me. His face was 
very white and his eyes had an odd, wild look 
in them. 

“ Do you know what I was contemplating ?” 
he asked me suddenly. “Death. Death in 
its quiet, pale corruption, its placid senseless- 
ness. Death in this great sea-vault with the 
waves forever rolling overhead, and all the 
strange, uncanny creatures of the ocean as at- 


io8 Vanity! 

tendant mourners. He seemed inviting me — 
that pale King with his bony face and eyeless 
sockets. I seemed to hear him say — ” 

“ Oh, for. goodness’ sake don’t talk such rub- 
bish ! ” I exclaimed angrily. “ What have 
you been doing ? Not at that vile stuff again ?” 

“ No. On my honor — no,” he said eagerly. 
“ I promised I would tell you, and so I will. 
I am only melancholy. You have avoided 
me. I could read indifference in your look, 
and coldness in your eyes. I became a prey 
to miserable forebodings. Have I offended 
you in any way ? ” 

“ No,” I said, looking at the wan and miser- 
able young face ; “ not specially. Not more 
than your uselessness and morbidness always 
do offend me.” 

“ Cure me of them I ” he cried eagerly. 
“Be my salvation. Already you have helped 
me so much. . . . You are my life’s good 
angel, I feel sure. I have always looked upon 
marriage as a terror when it has not seemed 
an absurdity, but . . . you have converted 
me. Will you be my wife and make me all 
you desire ? In your hands I should be as 
wax. I recognize in you that pure and su- 
perior power to which alone I can bow. Say 
you will use it on my behalf.” 

He had moved from the rock and was stand- 
ing by my side. The golden light fell on his 


109 


Vanity! 

face and gave it warmth and color, his eyes 
looked at me beseechingly, his weak, mobile 
lips were trembling. I think he was in ear- 
nest, and for a moment or two I allowed myself 
the triumph of conquest. But was it a triumph 
after all ? . . . 

“ How long you are answering,” he faltered 
presently. “Is ‘yes’ so hard to say?” and 
he held out his hands. 

That gesture decided me. Like a flash I 
saw another hand stretched out to me — a laugh- 
ing face and pleading eyes alive with purpose, 
and brimful of humor. This was but the 
corpse of all true sentiment — a puny weakling 
for whom I had no feeling save a pitying con- 
tempt. Yet — to be Countess of Wrexborough ? 
— never to have to slave and work and be at 
the mercy of great ladies’ whims and million- 
aires’ purses 1— how tempting was the picture 1 

Then the cold damp hands touched mine 
and I drew suddenly away. 

“No,” I said firmly. “No, Lord Ernie, I 
will not marry you.” 

He hung his head like a chidden child. 
“ Is it because of my life ... of what I have 
confessed ? ” 

“ Partly— and partly because marriage has 
no attraction for me. Neither your position 
nor your set would compensate for the attend- 
ant drawbacks to both.” 


no 


Vanity! 

“ Drawbacks ! ” he repeated as if bewildered. 

“Yes. I know a great deal of what goes on 
behind the scenes of society. Your great 
ladies are not all they seem. Their life — which 
looks so alluring to those on the fringe of that 
supposed Paradise — has no attraction for me. 
If you are born into a position you must put 
up with it, but if you’re adopted into one it 
will often not put up with you. I don’t like 
insolence, and no one can be so offensively 
insolent as your great lady.” 

“ You would be as good as any of them.” 

“ Perhaps, but they would not think so. 
The set into which a marriage with you would 
take me is a set I know particularly well.” 

“ But how the deuce — ” 

I smiled. “You have taken me very much 
on trust. You have never asked who or what 
lam?” 

“Any one could see you were a thorough- 
bred at a glance. Burke and Debrett couldn’t 
do more for you than you do for yourself.” 

“ A pretty compliment, but still it would 
not carry much weight even with your— mother 
shall we say ? ” 

“ Oh 1 hang it all. I’m not bound to ask 
her.” 

“Still, she could make it very unpleasant for 
both of us, if she knew you wanted to marry a 
—dressmaker 1 ” 


Vanity! 


Ill 


“ A— what ?" 

“A dressmaker — pure and simple. A lady, 
I grant you, but my position is that of a Court 
modiste of Bond Street. Society will receive 
a music-hall star, a stage dancer, even a bur- 
lesque actress when she sports her coronet, and 
trails her wedded lord after her skirts, but it 
would turn its back on a woman who had 
made its gowns, and learnt iis>'peiits secrets, and 
been in its debt, and received its checks from 
many strange sources. That would be a very 
different story. There are no hard and fast 
rules about society. It is a very queer institu- 
tion ; but it has its own ideas of who may steal 
the horse, and who may not even glance at 
the stable door.” 

His face was flushed now, and I could see 
he was struggling with the varied emotions 
caused by my confession. 

“ Then you will not— marry me ?” he blurted 
out at last. 

“ No. And you ought to be very grateful to 
me for saying so. If I were designing, or self- 
seeking, I should jump at your offer.” 

“ If you only cared,” he muttered. “ It seems 
hard that the only woman who has made me 
want to marry should refuse me.” 

“ I cannot understand why you should want 
to marry me,” I said, moving on at last. He 
turned and walked beside me. 


II2 


Vanity! 

“ You have been so good to me/’ he said. 
“ And you are strong and helpful and sensible. 
I’ll never find another woman like you.” 

Again I laughed. “Oh, yes, you will, but 
you must alter your own life first. I’m not 
good at lecturing, but I feel I ought to lecture 
you. You must throw off all these affecta- 
tions. You must try and be a credit to your 
manhood and your race. Your mother is 
devoted to you. . . . Think what she would 
suffer did she know what you confessed 
to me. Think of your youth and health 
ruined for want of a little moral courage — the 
courage to break a pernicious habit, and give 
up a set of false and unworthy companions. 
What good woman could respect or love you 
if she knew of your life ? Believe me, women 
love a manly man — one they can look up to 
and reverence. It rests with yourself to 
deserve such a woman, and she will complete 
your life and teach you happiness.” 

“ The more you say the more I love you. I 
can’t even think of any other woman.” 

“ Nonsense,” I said, cheerfully. “ Why, I’m 
at least ten years older than yourself.” 

“ Age matters nothing when one loves.” 

“ Perhaps not, but I don’t love you, and I 
should be always remembering my gray hairs 
and wrinkles while you were in the prime of life.” 

“ If you understood me — ” 


Vanity! 113 

I grew impatient. “ I understand you so 
well that I should never care to understand 
you more, Lord Ernie. I think you scarcely 
recognize how much of the 'poseur there is 
about you. Probably you will play the un- 
happy Amaryllis for a while to please your 
own fancied unhappiness, but it is your vanity 
that is concerned, not your heart, and the 
wound is not deadly. What you call art is 
merely a false view of life. You don’t look at 
it straight, with clear, honest vision.” 

He reddened again, and an offended look 
came into his face. 

“ I thought you understood me better,” he 
said. “ But women are all alike, narrow- 
minded, full of prejudice. . . .” 

“ Have you ever given yourself the trouble 
to understand us?” I asked quietly. “Your 
club and its false teachings, the books that 
have poisoned your mind — what sort of teach- 
ers are these ? ” 

“ Yet you are sending me back to them.” 

“ If you are weak — yes. But I thought—” 

“ It’s no use your thinking. I’m like a 
rudderless ship. I shall drift back as sure as 
fate, and it will be your fault.” 

“That is the selfish cant a man uses as his 
strongest weapon. But a woman owes a duty 
to herself, and self-sacrifice can be a weakness 

as well as a virtue.” 

8 


1 14 Vanity! 

He was silent a long time. Then he turned 
suddenly to me and said, “ Will you give me 
back my case ? ” 

I looked at him, indignant and ashamed. 

“ You put it into the pocket of that gown 
you are wearing,” he went on. 

My hand went to my pocket. Yes ... it 
was there. Slowly I drew it out. Then, 
without a word, I slipped before him, and 
threw the pernicious thing far out to sea. It 
fell on the shining golden track the moon had 
left, then sank, and was lost to sight. 

He followed it with an angry glance, his 
face deathly white. 

“ 111 get another to-morrow,” he said, and 
turned on his heel and walked away in an 
opposite direction. 


Vanity! 


iiS 


CHAPTER XII. 

I SPENT the whole of the next day on the 
sea, engaging a boat and taking my luncheon 
with me. I wished to avoid any rencontre 
with Lord Ernie or his mother. 

I made the man land me at a primitive little 
hamlet where I had tea at a primitive little inn 
only sacred to fishermen and artists. At sun- 
set I returned. The light was fading out of 
the sky. The glowing colors of the west paled, 
save where they flushed some floating feathers 
of cloud. The sea was mirror-like and wave- 
less, and the distant headlands were only hazy 
and indistinct shapes. 

I took off my hat as I landed, and strolled 
slowly along over the firm white sands. I was 
lazily fatigued with my long day, and in no 
hurry to reach the hotel. Indeed, I felt I had 
had quite enough of Lord Ernie, and that 
either he or I would have to leave the place. 
The doors stood wide open, and as I entered 
I was conscious of something unusual in the 
face of the porter. He looked at me in a way 
that roused my curiosity. At the same 
moment a waiter approached. 


ii6 Vanity! 

“ Excuse me, madame,” he said. “ But her 
ladyship is in a terrible state. She wishes to 
see you immediate.” 

“ Why, what’s happened ? ” I exclaimed. 

“ His lordship, madame, has been drowned, 
while bathing . . . so it is supposed. He was 
picked up by a boatman, and his clothes were 
lying on the beach, and they brought him 
straight here, and it’s been something aw- 
ful. . . . Her ladyship is nearly out of her 
mind.” 

“ Good Heavens ! drowned — ” I faltered ; 
and the shock and surprise turned me faint 
and sick. 

I thought of his words the previous evening. 
“Do you know what I was contemplating — 
Death?” . . . And it had come to him so 
suddenly — so soon. 

J asked no more questions, but hurried 
up-stairs to the poor mother. She was indeed 
like one distrait. Pacing to and fro the room, 
wringing her hands, crying wildly and frantic- 
ally on the name of her boy (poor worthless 
idol 1). My heart ached for her. I tried to 
soothe her. 

I knew she had been spared both sorrow 
and shame in the future, but I could not tell 
her so. . . . 

I wrote letters for her to her men of busi- 
ness, to relatives who had to be told. I even 


Vanity! 117 

tried to persuade her to take some food, but 
all in vain. She only wept and moaned and 
called on Heaven on take her too, since life 
had no abiding joy left for her. When she was 
quite worn out and passive, I administered a 
sedative left by the doctor, and then the maid 
and I got her to bed. 

The woman promised to sleep in her room 
that night, and at last I was able to seek my 
own. 

There would have to be an inquest. Per- 
haps I should be called upon to give evidence. 
I sincerely hoped not. I felt thankful I had not 
seen him that morning. It seemed dreadful 
that my holiday should have had such an 
ending. 

The inquest was held to-day. The verdict 
of course was “ Death by misadventure.'’ 

The valet was censured for not accompany- 
ing his young master, knowing his delicate 
condition of health. But as there could be no 
possible reason for one so blessed with this 
world’s goods taking voluntary leave of them, 
it was unanimously agreed that he had been 
drowned accidentally. 

I alone had my fears and my misgivings. 
But I kept them to myself. As soon as the 
inquiry was over I returned to London. 

It was comparatively empty, at least in 


ii8 Vanity! 

fashionable quarters. Bond Street and Regent 
Street and Piccadilly were quite deserted. 
The heat had turned to rain, and town looked 
altogether its dingiest and worst. 1 had a 
spell of comparative quiet while I arranged my 
autumn campaign and took up a few mourn- 
ing orders. I also made some alterations in 
the decorations of my rooms, and prepared 
Paris novelties according to the directions of 
my invaluable partner. 

(He is not coming back till the end of the 
month, he writes, but I have no immediate 
need of him just yet.) 

I have just returned from dining with Di 
Abercroft. She is up to her ears in work and 
orders. The theatrical season begins in Oc- 
tober and she has any amount of new dresses 
to design for new plays, and actresses are 
generally as difficult a class to please as to fit. 

Over our coffee and her cigarette I told her 
my little adventure and its tragic sequence. 
I could see she thought me a fool to have 
missed so good a chance. 

“ Why, your fortune was made,” she ex- 
claimed. “ And the very fact of his being so 
young was in your favor. You could have 
done what you pleased with him. It is a mis- 
take for a woman to marry a man older than 
herself. He either bullies her or manages 


Vanity! 119 

her. When she has the advantage of seniority 
she can bully or manage him.” 

“ But he was such a fool,” I complained. 
“ I really couldn’t have done it, Di. Men are 
bad enough, God knows, but at least I like 
one with some manliness and strength and 
character in him. This boy was nothing but 
a boudoir lap-dog. I believe he powdered his 
face and wore corsets. He had his nails mani- 
cured every morning, and all his linen was 
laid among sachet bags. He told me so I ” 

I gave a little shudder, but she only laughed. 

“ He was simply the type of ultra-civilized 
modern youths. Women make pets of them, 
and they are really quite harmless. . . . Sort 
of toy dogs, warranted not to bite. Talking 
of that, will you believe the latest fad of society 
is buying toys for its pets. Lady Vyvash told 
me she had bought a doll for her little Schip- 
perke to play with. The sweet thing did not 
quite appreciate it, for she bit its head off, so 
Lady Vy was going to get another for the 
darling, not quite so expensive, a matter of 
twenty-five shillings or thereabouts.” 

“ It’s sickening 1 ” I exclaimed. “ And all 
the wo and want around.” 

“ They don’t realize it. It doesn’t come in 
their way. The police and the County Coun- 
cil take care of that. And dogs are so much 
more interesting than starving children 1 ” 


120 


Vanity! 

“ What will they do next ? 

“ I often wonder. They’ve run through a 
good many fads lately. Boudoir telephones, 
and tea-parties for pet dogs, African niggers, 
gambling on the Stock Exchange, bridge and 
baccarat, and a few other little pastimes which 
shall be nameless.” 

“ I wish they’d take it into their heads to 
pay their bills,” I observed. “ It’s hateful 
having to ask over and over again.” 

“ But Wildash is going to establish a 
ready-money system, I understood you to 
say.” 

“ Only with the 'parvenus and nouveatix 
riches. It wouldn’t do with every one — Lady 
Vandeleur for instance.” 

“ No, indeed. I fancy I see the look on 
her face if you suggested such a thing. By 
the way, the little Farringdon scandal is 
growing. . . . She ought to be careful.” 

“ I have not seen or heard of her since I 
came back,” I said. “ I was wondering if she 
had changed her dressmaker.” 

“We did a couple of gowns for her. She 
was staying somewhere in the neighborhood 
of Balmoral and thought she might be asked 
there.” 

“ Oh — and was she ? ” 

“ The society jackals haven’t had any ‘tips’ 
to that effect. Oh ! talking of tips, how did 


I2I 


Vanity! 

that Peck woman manage to square the society 
columns ? Her name and her doings at Hom- 
burg were in every one of them/’ 

“ I suppose she has learnt the secret,” I 
answered moodily. “ Every one has his or 
her price on those papers. You can buy a 
‘ par ’ as easily as you can a penny bun.” 

“Not quite so cheaply though, and not very 
good value for your money.” 

“ Do you thing the Pecks will catch on ? ” 
I asked. “ I believe their mansion in Park 
Lane is something marvelous. How do 
Americans get so rich ?” 

“ It’s an amazing country,” she said thought- 
fully. “ Small beginnings, shady middles, 
and flourishing ends. But after all it is the 
end people want. They can forget the inter- 
mediate stages.” 

“ There’s something odiously snobbish in the 
way people run after money nowadays.” 

“ There is, my dear. And yet, for us, who 
can peep behind the scenes, even snobbery 
has its uses. We get our bills paid.” 

She threw aside her cigarette and leant back 
in her chair. “Tell me something about Wild- 
ash ?” she said. “ I never laughed so much 
in my life as at your description of him and la 
m^re Peck. Isn’t he a demon of audacity? 
That young man will get on in the world, be- 
lieve me.” 


122 


Vanity! 

“ I think I have told you everything up to 
date,” I answered. “ 1 suppose he has some 
more surprises in store, but I must wait his 
arrival.” 

“ It certainly,’^ she said, “ is the boldest and 
most original idea I ever heard of. I would 
give a great deal to hear him talk to those 
people.” 

I laughed softly at the remembrance of Mrs. 
Peck’s face. “ You’d never forget it if you 
did. I’m simply dumb, but they stand it. 
He has taken their measure very correctly 
when he says that a woman will submit to any- 
thing for the prestige of being the best-dressed 
woman of her set.” 

“ I told you his taste was perfect,” she said 
thoughtfully. “ Daring, but never wrong. 
With that, and your genius for ‘ cut,’ you 
ought to be a success.” 

“I hope I shall—” 

“ Of course people will talk of the menage ^ 
but that won’t matter. It’s a pity you couldn’t 
marry him.” 

“ On the contrary, marriage would spoil 
everything. Did ever any husband give to his 
wife what he would to a woman whose claims 
were impersonal— time, attention, homage, for- 
bearance ? ” 

“ Perhaps you’re right. It’s certainly an 
interesting experiment. You’ll lose all the 


Vanity! 123 

Grundys and that sort, but if he works up the 
right set your fortune’s made.” 

“ I wonder,” I said, “ if that fact will bring 
any great satisfaction with it ? ” 

“ It ought to. Plenty of money and no need 
to work. ... I call it an excellent retiring 
pension. But we women are always discon- 
tented. The moral of the Fisherman’s Wife 
and the Flounder is peculiarly true. Given 
what we want is to make us immediately want 
something more.” 

I rose to go. It was eleven o’clock, and I 
kept early hours when I could. 

“ Let me know when Wildash returns,” she 
said, as she helped me on with my cloak. 
“ We must have a little dinner somewhere 
and talk over things. I’m frightfully busy, 
working overtime for the new piece at the 
Lyric. But I’ll spare an evening for that.” 

I promised to let her know and then left. 

As I sit here and recall her words, I find 
myself repeating that suggestion. “ What a 
pity you couldn’t marry him.” 

“But I can,'' I say softly, “if I wish . . . 
or he proposed it. Only I don’t wish. I am 
very content with things as they are. He is 
much better as a friend than a husband. All 
the same—” 

A blot on the paper ; a thoughtful face look- 


124 


Vanity! 

ing back at me from the mirror, into which I 
have been absently gazing ; the striking of an 
hour by the clock ; these remind me of the 
passage of time. It is half an hour since I 
wrote those words. . . . What a long way 
one can travel in half an hour ! 


Vanity! 


125 


CHAPTER XIII. 

WiLDASH came back to-day. 

He was heralded by a cartload of fabrics and 
modes from Paris and Vienna, sketches and 
designs of the ultra-c//zc in fashion, and was in 
wild spirits. 

He and Di and I went to a premiere at the 
Comedy, and afterwards had a delightful little 
supper at the Savoy. His description of the 
Pecks at Homburg was simply delicious. We 
laughed so immoderately that our table became 
even more noticeable than that of a very fast 
little peeress, who was entertaining a music- 
hall “star” and a fashionable palmist, and 
whose parties were always remarkable for noise, 
if not for wit. 

It was no unusual thing for me to come 
across my customers, or clients, at restaurants 
and supper-rooms, but I was astonished when 
the door opened to admit Lady Farringdon 
and Captain Calhoun. I saw she recognized 
me as she threw a search-light glance over the 
room, but we never knew one another in pub- 
lic, so my eye remained fixed “ on the coast 


126 


Vanity! 

of Greenland/' to quote Wildash's description. 
I repeat that I was a little — just a little — sur- 
prised to see her here with this man, but then 
the smart set and the “ souls ” do very singu- 
lar things, that are quite above the interpreta- 
tion of ordinary minds, and for which no mere 
outsider would dare call them to account. So 
I turned my attention to quite the other end of 
the room, and repaid that debt of the case of 
liqueurs. 

“Those people were in Paris the other day/' 
observed Wildash presently. “ I know Jim 
Calhoun. His sister is going to make a very 
brilliant match. She’s coming to you for her 
trousseau gowns and cloaks. He’s got to pay 
all that because the father’s dead and the 
mother very badly off. I’ve arranged it. 
Long credit, but safe in the end. She’ll be 
Duchess of Bridgewater, and she’s only 
twenty.” 

“And he?” 

“ Something near sixty. Quite juvenile — 
for a duke ; and remarkably well-preserved — 
vide Morning Post. Dear Morning Post! 
what should we do without its useful informa- 
tion ? ” 

“ She’ll be his third wife,” said Di. 

“Yes. Let’s hope she’ll remain so. A last 
little venture.” 

“What a chance for you,” said Di. “ Un- 


Vanity! 127 

less she goes to some one else after her 
marriage.” 

“ I think I can answer for that,” said Wild- 
ash. “ She has a certain little . . . very little 
— physical defect. Mrs. Costello must dis- 
cover this, and conceal it. The duchess won't 
want to change her dressmaker, then.” 

I looked at him. “ How did you — ” 

“ How did I find it out ? Because my eyes 
are sharper than most people’s . . . and I had 
long noted a partiality for one peculiar style 
of bodice. I talked one evening to the 
brother at Bignon’s over a bottle or maybe 
two of champagne. I spoke of her exquisite 
face (it really is exquisite) and wondered that 
she inclined to the ‘ muffling ’ order of 
shoulder. In vino veritas — I got a hint of 
reasons and saw my friend home to his hotel, 
while the early birds sought the worm in 
Lutetia’s silent streets.” 

“ How poetic 1 ” laughed Di. 

“Yes, and how useful. That trousseau is 
going to do great things for us. I’ve made up 
my mind about her presentation dress. There 
won’t be one like it. Youth, real Titian hair 
and a skin like white rose leaves — there are 
possibilities for you 1 ” 

“ But Court dress displays defects instead 
of concealing them.” 

“ Not as I intend to use it.” 


128 Vanity! 

“You’ll be a godsend to the Sexagenarian 
Loyalties,” laughed Di. “ I should advertise 
a specialty — Personal defects successfully 
concealed. What a following you’d have.” 

“ It’s surprising,” he said, “ how few really 
good figures there are, and how few really 
beautiful women. Of course hundreds pass 
as beauties, but then that’s because they make 
up admirably, dress exquisitely, or are c///c, 
or graceful, or audacious I But they won’t 
bear criticism. You can’t judge them by the 
canons of beauty. The most perfect types are 
the Austrians, in my opinion.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Di, “ what figures ! I quite 
agree with you. There’s a natural grace and 
elegance about the Viennese . . . English- 
women can’t touch it. They’re cast in a 
coarser mold. I always think an English- 
woman looks best with an out-door back- 
ground. Give her a hat and a coat and skirt, 
and she’s all right. It’s in rooms ... at 
great pageants she suffers by contrast with her 
foreign neighbors. She is so conscious of 
her clothes, and if she has jewels she puts 
them on in a mass. She wants every one to 
see what a quantity she possesses, and hangs 
them all over herself as a squaw hangs 
beads.” 

“ Self-ornamentation is only a relic of bar- 
barity,” I said. 


Vanity! 129 

“ Not even that ; savages have it still. To 
modern women jewels stand in place of the 
domestic virtues. She’d certainly never rank 
them as ‘ far above rubies.’ ” 

Wildash’s eyes looked meditatively in the 
direction of Lady Farringdon and Captain 
Calhoun, and Di and I ate our quails in aspic, 
in silence. 

“ It will soon be the anniversary of your 
opening, won’t it ?” asked Wildash suddenly. 

“Yes,” I answered, “next month.” 

“ I have an idea for celebrating it,” he said. 
“We must talk it over. How many people 
would your rooms hold ?” 

“Not many. I’m afraid— a dozen make a 
crowd. You’re not meditating an ‘ At home,' 
I hope ? ” 

“ I am, but something quite out of the com- 
mon. A big draw.'' 

Di laughed good-naturedly. “ Your audac- 
ity will carry you too far some day,” she 
said. “ All women aren’t as meek as Mrs. 
Peck.” 

“ All women are manageable in some way,” 
he answered. “ My irons aren’t on one fire 
only.” 

Later on, after he had put Di into a han- 
som, he asked if he might come home with 
me for a chat and cigarette. I agreed, late as 
it was, and over a chasse of cognac and the 
9 


130 Vanity! 

perfumes of best Turkish, he unfolded to me 
his plan. 

It was nothing more or less than to engage 
some large hall or room and issue invitations 
for an “At home.’' Refreshments and decora- 
tions of the best, and most c/z/c, also a little, 
very little music, with specially engaged and 
first-class artistes. But the specialty and 
feature of the proceedings would be a pro- 
cession of models who were to walk up and 
down one end of the room on a slightly raised 
platform, roped off from the guests. These 
models were to represent every variety of cos- 
tume — morning, afternoon and visiting gowns. 
Court dress, evening dress and tea-gown. 
One of each, and as perfect as could be. 

“ But the expense 1 ” I gasped. 

“ Nothing venture — nothing have," he said. 
“ ril get most of the gowns on credit from a 
place I know. But each must have a finish- 
ing touch at our hands. And the girls must 
be handsome and well-figured, of course. 
Think of the sensation 1 The wedding march 
will sound, and a bride will walk on, and slowly 
parade up and down. Patriotic airs and the 
Court model appears. Sentimental valse 
and evening gown of lace and chiffon. Noc- 
turne — tea-gown . . . and so on. I think 
ifs a grand idea. How the women will 
talk!" 


Vanity! 13 1 

“ There’s no doubt of that,'' I said. “ But 
it’s a risk.” 

“ Naturally. All big splashes mean a risk. 
But I can finance you through this if you’ll 
agree, and the results for next season will be 
enormous.” 

So, after a little more talk, I did agree to 
venture. I had faith in him, and he knew his 
world and knew how to deal with it. Before 
we parted he had drawn the designs of the 
invitation cards and program, and we agreed 
to send them out as soon as printed. 

The day fixed was the first anniversary of 
the opening of Frou-Frou’s establishment. 

Between those weeks I was kept well em- 
ployed. 

Captain Calhoun called with his sister the 
very next day after the Savoy supper. She was, 
as Wildash had said, lovely. The face and fea- 
tures were perfect, large turquoise blue eyes 
looked out from an artistic tangle of red-gold 
hair. Her skin was velvety. She rarely had 
any color, but the rose-petal smoothness of the 
cheeks were independent of anything so com- 
monplace. 

It was not, of course, until her first pattern 
was being tried on that I discovered the slight 
defect Wildash had mentioned. I chose to 
do the fitting myself, and sent the assistant 
away on some pretext. Then I gently sympa- 


132 Vanity! 

thized with the future duchess, and told her 
that if she would trust herself in my hands 
the censorious and argus-eyed mob of a jeal- 
ous society should be none the wiser. 

I could see she was startled and a little con- 
fused by my quick perception. But she was 
young and ambitious, and would have agreed 
to anything at that time. 

“ In my establishment,” I told her, “ discre- 
tion is absolute. Not one whisper of our artis- 
tic secrets gets beyond the doors. My staff 
know how particular I am on this point and 
that instant dismissal would follow any infringe- 
ment of the rules.” 

I thought to myself that Wildash had an 
apt pupil, but que voulez vous — one must live. 

The future duchess left the selection of her 
gowns and cloaks to me, so I called in Wildash 
to interview her. 

He was very merciful. The admiration in 
his eyes as they rested on her face turned only 
to the gentlest commiseration as they swept 
over her shoulders and somewhat petite figure. 

I saw her blush, but he merely took out 
note-book and pencil and jotted down a few 
words. 

“ Blush-rose, pale turquoise, French gray 
and white,” he said rapidly. “ Also, for bold 
effect, one gown of flame-colored peati de sole, 
as near as possible the golor gf Miss Cah 


Vanity! 133 

houn’s hair. To be trimmed with lace ap- 
pliqueV 

‘‘ And the presentation gown ? ” I suggested. 

“ Ah 1 ” he said and half closed his eyes. 
“ Her grace will have my idea submitted to 
her when she returns from the lane de miel. 
She has lace, no doubt, or will have it includ- 
ed among wedding presents.” 

“Oh! yes,” answered the girl. “I am to 
have some very rare old lace among my 
trousseau.” 

“ An entire train of lace,” he observed. 

She started. “ But I thought Court trains 
must be of some heavy material — silk, satin, 
brocade, isn’t it ? ” 

“ We are always designing new effects,” he 
answered courteously. “ For one so dainty 
and fairy-like as Her Grace of Bridgewater 
nothing heavy would be suitable. Besides 
the weight — ” He paused, and his eyes 
seemed reminiscent of a defective shoulder. 
A wave of color mounted to the girl’s exqui- 
site face. “ It is also the custom,” he went 
on, “ for a bride to wear her wedding-gown at 
her presentation. The fact of its being the 
custom is quite sufficient for our firm to avoid 
it. We pride ourselves on being absolutely 
original, or, at least, as original as prescribed 
and arbitrary functions will allow. The cere- 
mony of a Drawing-room is long and tedious 


134 Vanity! 

enough without a woman being burdened with 
the weight of an enormous train suspended 
from her shoulders or supported from her 
hips. You, madame, shall have no such 
burden. Titania herself could not look more 
fairy-like or spirituelle than you shall look if 
you but trust to me.” 

“ Willingly,” she said. “ I will wait then 
for your designs.” 

“ Meanwhile,” he urged, “ don’t breathe a 
word to a living soul of the lace train. Next 
season there will be scores of them. Believe 
me, madame, there is but one secret for the 
true elegante to master. She must be just one 
day, one hour even, in advance of the fashion. 
She must set instead of follow. That is simple 
enough, is it not ? I make a present of it to 
her future Grace of Bridgewater.” 

He bowed, closed the note-book, and left the 
room. 

The girl turned to me, a faint flush still 
upon her cheek and wonder in her eyes. 

“What an absolutely charming man 1 ” she 
exclaimed. 

And I knew Wildash had achieved another 
victory. 


Vanity! 


135 


CHAPTER XIV. 

I SHOULD not be giving a true account of my 
professional career if I pretended that all my 
customers were polite, courteous and solvent. 
Even my first year’s experience did not give 
these points the favor of a majority. 

An instance of bourgeois courtesy following 
close upon that interview with Miss Calhoun 
is worthy of mention. I received a visit from 
two ladies, both unmarried, who had come up 
from some town in the Midlands. I had been 
introduced to them in the pages of an illus- 
trated fashion journal. One of them required 
an evening gown which she insisted should be 
of flaming scarlet satin trimmed with steel 
and white sequins and lace. It went against 
the grain to contemplate such a gown, but the 
girl was tall, dark, and finely proportioned, 
and I yielded. I never summoned Wildash 
to people of this sort. It was beneath his 
genius to advise or design for them. The 
dress was completed and sent to the Hotel 
Metropole where the young lady {sic) and her 
friend were staying. 


136 Vanity! 

The following day I received a letter to this 
effect 

“ Madame Frou-Frou,— I am Miss Nor- 
manton Tighe. You will remember I called 
at your shop with my friend Miss de Vaux 
Browne who ordered an evening robe. What 
price will you charge to make me one of sky- 
blue satin, lined silk, trimmed lace and flowers ? 
A berthe of flowers, and trails down the skirt. 
I am most particular, as the robe is to be worn 
at my papa’s State Ball at the Town Hall in 
honor of his Mayoralty and Confederateship 
on accession to his Title of Knighthood. An 
early answer will oblige 

“ Miss Normanton Tighe.” 

This epistle was too good to keep to myself. 
I showed it to Wildash, who was first indignant 
and then roared with laughter. Unfortunately 
though it roused his Irish spirit to retaliation, 
and he insisted on my writing a note at his 
dictation to the following effect : — 

“ Madame Frou-Frou presents her compli- 
ments to Miss Normanton Tighe, and regrets 
she cannot undertake an order for any Pro- 
vincial State Ball. She suggests that Miss 
Normanton Tighe should place her order in 
the hands of Messieurs Jay, or Peter Robinson, 
or some firm honored by Royal patronage,” 


Vanity! 137 

“ There ! ’’ he exclaimed triumphantly. “ If 
that won’t bring her down a peg I know noth- 
ing of women. She is sure to go to one of 
these firms, and they’ll give her a reading 
which will astonish her. I should like to add 
a postscript recommending her to have a little 
more education, especially in the art of letter 
writing. But I suppose I’d better not.” 

“ Indeed, no I ” I exclaimed. “ Even as it 
stands the letter will put her into a fine rage. 
I remember her that day — stout, red-faced, 
supercilious and bursting out of a tailor-made 
coat of red cloth and brass buttons, topped by 
a large blue chiffon hat. She was also very 
careful of her umbrella, and told me the handle 
was ‘ real ’ gold.” 

“ We don’t want customers like that,” he 
said. “ They’re no credit, and assuredly no 
recommendation.” 

“ They’ve one advantage,” I sighed. “ They 
pay cash down.” 

“ Well, we’re not insolvent yet,” he laughed. 
“ And talking of that, you must join the U. P. S, 
Society. It’s a splendid thing. You’ll learn 
whom to trust, and whom to avoid, besides pro- 
tecting yourself against defaulters. I’ll arrange 
that. It’s rather difficult to get into. You want 
first-class references. But we can get those — 
now. Besides, the big shops give ever so much 
longer credit if they know you’re in the Society. 


138 Vanit}^ 

We’ve a pretty large account at Debenham’s, 
haven’t we ? ” 

“ Indeed, yes,” I said. “ Enough to make 
me afraid of Christmas.” 

“ Calhoun’s good for some ready money down 
— I know that. His future brother-in-law is 
very generous. Fancy that girl with eighty 
thousand a year. It’s monstrous. Not but we 
can help to relieve her of a fair share of her 
pin-money. If it’s true that one half the world 
suffers in order that the other half may enjoy 
— the sufferers are entitled to make what they 
can of their bargaining.” 

He laughed and sauntered off to enjoy a 
cigarette in his office, while he went over the 
books and examined into liabilities. I wished 
I could take things as easily as he did, but I 
confess debts always made me uncomfortable. 

Everything was arranged for the “ At home ” 
Wildash had planned. He had engaged a very 
large room in Baker Street, which could easily 
accommodate a couple of hundred people. It 
happened to be exceptionally well decorated, 
and when beautified by flowers and plants, 
seats and screens, alcoves and electric lights, 
the effect would be charming. 

There was to be a sort of buffet at one end of 
the room where some half-dozen girls in black 
skirts and scarlet page jackets, and powdered 


' Vanity! 139 

wigs would serve as attendants. This was to 
introduce the idea of female liveried servants. 
Tea and coffee and dainty sandwiches and cakes 
would be provided. He explained that elab- 
orate refreshments would be out of place, and 
I quite agreed with him. 

Di was in a state of jealous rapture as the day 
approached. I think she envied me this odd, 
inventive partner, though she had at first scoffed 
at him. He had designed my dress for the 
occasion, and assuredly I had no reason to fear 
rivalry. It was a masterpiece of simple and 
effective elegance, besides having the one novel 
touch of a forthcoming fashion which would 
not be given to the world for another fortnight. 

The invitation cards had not required answers, 
so we were uncertain as to how many guests 
would honor us. However, on the day itself I 
became almost alarmed at the numbers who 
poured in. Carriages stood in double rows all 
up the street. Splendid footmen in gorgeous 
liveries kept my page busy in answering their 
knocks. Through the long room sailed and 
strutted the peacocks of the fashionable world, 
and lorgnetted glances expressed approval of 
my ideas, and, only too often, a modified envy 
of my own chic appearance. 

The Pecks were there, of course, and Lady 
Farringdon and Captain Calhoun’s sister. She 
wore one of our gowns. It was of white cloth. 


140 Vanity! 

A full snowy boa of ostrich feathers fell to her 
feet, and a Frou-Frou toque showed one touch 
oi turquoise-blue velvet to match her lovely 
eyes. 

Whatever the people had expected they cer- 
tainly were not prepared for the sort of after- 
noon I gave. A first-rate lady pianist played 
enchanting fragments from works of well-known 
composers. The tea was always fresh, hot and 
fragrant. And the caviare biscuits and “ soldier 
sandwiches ” were a credit to Wither’s estab- 
lishment. Besides this, they all knew each 
other, and could chatter and gossip and scream 
to their hearts’ content. 

The first note of surprise was struck when 
the piano commenced a slow and stately meas- 
ure— the curtains screening the platform drew 
aside, and there walked up and down in time 
to the music the first model. A card of de- 
scription was affixed to one of the draped- 
back curtains, and the audience were thus 
enabled to see what was represented. 

A short interval elapsed between each ex- 
hibit — enough to allow of discussion and re- 
freshment. 

The bride was a great success. She walked 
on, stately and magnificent in glistening satin 
and lace, her train held by a little page in 
Vandyke costume and a tiny bridesmaid whose 
attire was that of a Puritan maiden. The 


Vanity! 141 

wedding march announced this living tableau, 
and the visitors insisted on its repetition. 

Then came the Court gown — a thing of 
wonder and magnificence to which Mrs. Aure- 
lius B. Peck lost her heart. Silver tissue 
covered the most exquisite shade of green, the 
color of a lily-of-the-valley leaf. A touch of 
blush-rose pink at the left side of the bodice 
and train was the only other note of color. 
Our model was tall and fair, with a faultless 
figure, and proudly peacocked up and down 
the carpeted stage as pleased with herself as 
the crowd seemed to be with her gown. 

The tea-gown ended the show, and for this 
Wildash had introduced a recumbent figure, 
whose graceful limbs, clad in silken tights, 
might be traced through filmy clouds of chif- 
fon, deepening from the pink of dawn to the 
rose of sunset, and foamed with lace of the 
cobweb texture appliqued on to chiffon. 
Then the curtain fell for the last time, and my 
hour of triumph arrived. One and all sur- 
rounded me with congratulations, compli- 
ments, and promises of orders. 

Never had they seen anything like it, they 
declared. I was perfectly sure of that, and 
sure also that the account of the exhibition 
would be all over the fashionable world in 
twenty-four hours. 

“ So original 1 ... So unique, so wonder^ 


142 Vanity! 

ful,” they cackled. And one or two mur- 
mured, “ So expensive ” — and wondered how I 
could go to such lengths. But those were 
censorious people who owed too large bills to 
their modistes to dare change them for an- 
other, and who had to wear the dresses these 
tyrants gave them for fear of an expose, 

Josey Peck sidled up to me once. 

“ Isn’t he here ? ” she whispered. “ It’s ages 
since Fve seen him, and I’ve got something 
most particular to ask about. Did he tell you 
about Homburg ? We had a perfectly lovely 
time, and momma never knew. Why didn’t 
he come to-day? I’m real disappointed, d’you 
know ? I suppose ’twas he thought of all this ? 
Say ... he is cute, ain’t he ? ” 

“ Of course he wouldn’t appear here,” I 
answered. “ The show was only for women.” 

“Yes. ... So I see. Pity you didn’t ask 
a few men just to make it lively. Those 
liveried maids of yours are scrumptious. . . . 
No mistake. I’d make momma have ours 
dressed like that, only the worst of it is she 
will have men servants. You see out our way 
we can’t get ’em, ’cept blacks, and so it’s a 
novelty. She’d sooner have one of those 
plush and satin and powdered giants than a 
diamond coronet, would momma. I guess it’s 
partly ’cause she can’t keep a coronet on her 
head. I’ve seen her practising, but it won’t 


Vanity! 143 

stop nohow, and she does look a store figure in 
it, I can tell you.” 

She laughed loudly and turned her attention 
to some of Fuller's dainties on the buffet. 

“ Just you tell that dear man I missed him 
awfully,” she said, turning to me again with 
her mouth full oi fondants. “ I’ll have to call 
around, I s’pose. I want him to come down 
to Lady Persiflage’s country house and help 
with some theatricals. I as good as promised 
him, and he must come. He’s the very man. 
I told Lady Per. all about him. She’s dying 
to know him. She’s a little bit — well, lively, 
but such a good sort. You can do most any- 
thing you like down at her place. It’s the 
only one of your country houses I care to go 
to. But I’m keeping you, I see. Ta-ta. . . . 
I’ll look in to-morrow. Tell Wildash so.” 

It occurred to me that Homburg had some- 
thing to be answerable for if this was the state 
of intimacy. However, I had to smile and 
talk “ shop,” and flatter and be flattered and 
make appointments until my head ached. 

Still, the afternoon had been an enormous 
success, and in spite of what it had cost I saw 
our money repaid cent, per cent, before long. 

“A year ago,” I said to myself to-night, as, 
tired but exhilarated and hopeful, I sat before 
my bedroom fire, and cast my thoughts back 


144 


Vanity! 

over the events of the past twelvemonth, “a 
year ago since I contemplated my sign, and 
started this business. What a difference now ! 
I am sought after — I am the fashion — I am a 
person of consequence. Duchesses listen to 
my advice, and the smartest women are those 
I dress. In a few years I shall have made a 
fortune, or at least sufficient to retire upon. 
My credit will soon be good for thousands 
instead of hundreds — and then — ” 

I leant back and grew contemplative over 
the various uses of money. After all riches 
didn’t seem of much use to rich people. The 
wealthiest were the slaves of their wealth, 
ruled by obligations, harassed by laws of in- 
vestment, hampered by restrictions and forced 
to live for society and please it in order to 
prove that they possessed the means of doing 
so. The richer you were the more people 
expected of you. To please them you must 
spend money on them. A millionaire’s house 
is merely the house that his money adver- 
tises. Every detail has L. S. D. at the back 
of it. True, if you have .taste as well as 
wealth, you can get much pleasure out of art, 
and indulge the costliest whims of decorative 
science. But even then the rooms and pic- 
tures and furniture are unstable comforters. 
The best things in life are beyond mere 
money to buy — love, health, sympathy, friend- 


Vanity! 145 

ship, happiness. Imitations of each and all 
you may purchase, but the real thing — no. 
There your poorer brother has the advantage. 
There is nothing to be gained by flattering 
him. Nature gives him brains and health and 
good digestion and perhaps simple tastes. He 
can prove the worth of friendship, and win 
the heart he loves and know himself beloved 
for his own sake alone. Distrust leaves him 
untroubled, and faith and trust are not mere 
words but proven virtues. 

On the whole the compensations of life are 
more evenly balanced than we are inclined to 
believe. 

I yawned after this dose of philosophic re- 
flections, and closed my diary on a few pen- 
ciled entries. 

I went to bed wondering why Josey Peck 
wanted Wildash to go down to Lady Persi- 
flage’s country house, wondering more whether 
he would go, and feeling blissfully certain that 
Frou-Frou et Cie. would be the talk of London 
on the morrow. 

10 


146 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER XV. 

For the next week orders simply poured in. 

I hardly knew what to promise or undertake, 
so great was the demand for Frou-Frou’s 
costumes. 

“My dear creature,” exclaimed an eager 
claimant — a juvenile dowager of some sixty 
summers — “ I simply must have one of your 

gowns for the Countess of W ’s dinner next 

week. You know what an artistic soul she 
is 1 . . . They do say she designs her own 
dresses. Never leaves it to her modiste. Well, 
I do want the triumph of showing her some 
one else can dress as originally as herself. 
Simply tack it together, never mind the sewing, 
it can come back for that afterwards. Pin it 
on me if you like, but a gown of yours it must 
be. I want it copied from that model I saw 
yesterday.” 

“ Why not have the model itself ?” I sug- 
gested. 

(It was intended for a woman of twenty-five 
or thereabouts.) 

“ Then you can be certain of the gown. I 


Vanity! 147 

hardly know how to promise a duplicate in 
such a short time.” 

“ But would it fit?” she asked dubiously. 
“ It was worn by rather a — a slight figure, 
wasn’t it ? ” 

“ It can be easily altered.” 

“And the price ? ” 

“ Ninety-five guineas. Of course the alter- 
ations would not be charged for if you take 
the gown.” 

She decided she would take it, and oh 1 
what a sight she looked in it. But to her own 
idea she was perfect. Another peculiarity of 
women is that they take violent fancies to per- 
fectly unsuitable articles of attire, forgetting 
that the beauty of the thing itself loses all its 
charms if worn by the wrong person. 

The gown and the wearer must match in 
style, coloring, and design, or the result is 
inartistic. 

Had the dowager been one of my regular 
customers I would not have permitted her to 
wear this model, but I knew she had only 
come for a freak, and there was little credit to 
be gained by dressing her. I was glad too to 
be able to dispose of one of the many model 
gowns necessary for that exhibition of mine. 
They had cost an enormous amount of money, 
or at least would cost it. As yet they were 
unpaid for. 


148 Vanity! 

However, that fact sat lightly on my con- 
science as orders poured in. I had to engage 
a larger staff, having now four bodice hands, 
six skirt, and three sleeve workers. I still 
undertook most of the fitting, though I had 
an excellent assistant in that line, but I was 
resolved on keeping up the prestige of the 
establishment. To me “cut” was a sort of 
inspiration. I could have promised to fit 
almost any figure by merely looking at the 
proportions and then turning to scissors and 
lining, just as an artist would turn to pencil 
and cardboard. Practise had added certainty 
and accuracy to this gift, and I began to realize 
its value. 

“ We shall do,” said Wildash, triumphantly, 
as the dowager’s check came by return. 
“You must sell all those models, Mrs. Costello. 
It’ll be a quick profit for us. I have an idea 
that Lady Persiflage will take one or two. 
She’s coming for the dresses for her private 
theatricals. Sell her that tea-gown. It’s just 
her style.” 

“ She’s Josey Peck’s friend, is she not ? ” 

“Yes, and our lively American wants me to 
go down to her country place and assist. . . . 
Sort of stage manager. I expect it will be 
great fun. I wish you were coming too.” 

I laughed. “ I have quite enough of these 
people in my fitting-rooms,” I said. “ I assure 


Vanity! 149 

you, when one has studied a \voman’s whims 
and tempers and foibles in the capacity of 
dressmaker, one doesn’t feel inclined to pur- 
sue the experiment any further.” 

“I suppose they do bother you a lot,” he 
said commiseratingly. “Poor little woman— 
and you’re so kind-hearted. I declare some- 
times when I think of their airs and graces, I 
feel inclined to treat them to a ‘ lash of my 
tongue,’ as they say in Ireland.” 

“ Being a dressmaker means a liberal edu- 
cation in patience,” I said, laughing. “ Pm 
getting quite used to humbug. It wouldn’t 
do to treat every one as you do the Pecks, 
Harry.” 

He had begged me to drop the Mr. long 
ago, and I was nothing loth. There are people 
whom you are irresistibly compelled to call by 
their Christian names, and others to whom the 
more formal surname clings through a life- 
long acquaintanceship. 

It was late in the afternoon when this con- 
versation took place. Outside the fog brooded 
clammy and dark over everything. Within 
my room was the cheery glow of fire and rose- 
shaded light. 

I had just rung for tea, congratulating my- 
self the day’s work was over. The hour and 
the weather were against any callers. 

I gave Wildash some tea and had just 


i5o Vanity! 

poured out a cup for myself when the door 
opened and in rustled a very pretty dark woman, 
tall and elegant, and beautifully dressed. Fol- 
lowing her was Josey Peck. 

“ Well, I guess you do look comfortable, 
you two,” said that lively young lady. “ Lady 
Persiflage has come with me to talk over those 
theatricals of hers.” 

I rose and bowed. “ May I offer you some 
tea?” I asked. 

“ I guess we won’t mind anything that’ll 
wash the fog out of our throats,” said Josey, 
as Wildash handed them chairs. 

“We’re taking you very unceremoniously, 
Mrs. Costello,” said the pretty woman. “ But 
Miss Peck insisted on bringing me in.” She 
had rather a loud voice, and a quick, restless 
way of looking about at everything. I noted 
approval of Wildash in a glance that took him 
in from top to toe. His handsome face and 
perfectly fitting clothes evidently pleased her 
critical eye. 

“ How very charming your rooms are ! I’ve 
heard a lot about them, especially since your 
‘ Model At Home.’ Sounds like those things 
they send circulars about for, doesn’t it ? Pm 
so sorry I wasn’t there. So original, I hear. 
Every one’s talking of it.” 

“ Your idea, I bet,” observed Josey, looking 
at Wildash. 


Vanity! 15 1 

“ Partly,” he said. “ But Mrs. Costello had 
the carrying out of it.” 

“Yes. I saw you didn’t turn up. I was 
just mad, I can tell you. No one to make fun 
of the people. Oh 1 and you would have had 
some opportunities I Has momma been here 
lately, Mrs. Costello ? ” 

“ No,” I said. “ Not for a long time.” 

“ She ain’t none too pleased with us,” said 
the frank-souled American, indicating Wild- 
ash. “ Heard about our biking at Homburg. 
Read me the riot act, I can tell you. Just as 
if I cared. But here I’m running on and we 
must talk business. Now, Lady Per., it’s your 
turn. Get in your oar while you can or I’ll be 
doing it for you.” 

Lady Persiflage put down her tea-cup, and 
glanced at my partner. 

“ I’m having a house party next month,” she 
said. “ And we are going to do one or two 
little modern plays. None of the old tragedy 
things — ‘ Lady of Lyons ’ and ‘ Still Waters 
Run Deep ’ — only bright, airy, up-to-date 
trifles. But I want them superintended by 
some one whose taste is accurate and original. 
To do them as no one else has ever done 
them. . . . Strike a new note, in fact. From 
what I’ve heard of this establishment, and 
of you, Mr. Wildash, I fancy you’re the very 
people to carry out my ideas. Mrs. Cos- 


152 


Vanity! 

tello will do the dresses, I hope, and you I 
shall ask to stage-manage for us. Don’t say 
it’s not in your line, or rather say it, for I 
wouldn’t have the conventional thing for any 
consideration. I don’t mind telling you I’ve 
written one of the pieces myself. It only 
takes three people to act — three people and a 
footman. It was hearing Miss Peck talk of 
you that made me feel certain you were the 
very man to suggest, or superintend, and all 
that. It’s so hard,” she went on piteously, 
“ to find any sort of originality at all. Now 
that ‘ At Home ’ with the living models and 
the music, ///a/ was original if you like. Im- 
mediately I heard of it I said to Miss Peck, 
‘ I must try and get him for my theatricals,’ 
and here I am.” 

“ So I observe,” said Wildash, coolly. “ But, 
really, theatricals are not at all in my line.” 

“ Oh 1 don’t say that. I’ve counted upon 
you. I don’t want any of those dreadful pro- 
fessional people. They turn us all into sticks, 
and make us so unnatural — oh, please don’t be 
disobliging. No one ever says ‘ No ’ to me.” 

“ Then an Irishman mustn’t be the first,” 
said Wildash, smiling. “ Only, really, it’s not 
quite clear w4iat you want me to do. I can’t 
paint scenery, you know, and though I do a 
theater at least once a week I’ve never seen a 
rehearsal, or put any one through their paces.” 


Vanity! 153 

“That’s why it will be so delightfully orig- 
inal,” cried Lady Persiflage, clasping her 
hands. 

“You must say what sort of dresses, and 
what sort of room” (she glanced round ap- 
provingly) “and make them walk and talk 
like real people. Not stagey donkeys, who 
move as if they were under a drill sergeant’s 
eyes, and mouth their words, and smirk and 
grin, and that sort of thing. I’m intensely 
dramatic myself, but I want some one to back 
me up and make the others think as I do. 
They can all act, but the difficulty is to get 
them not to act. Do you understand ? ” 

“ Perfectly. But I should be better able to 
assist you if you could let me see your play.” 

“ Oh ! it’s not that. It’s only a little come- 
dietta — three characters as I told you — ” 

“ And— 3, footman.” 

“Yes. Fancy your remembering that. 
Josey, the manuscript is in the carriage pocket 
— would you — ” 

“ Could I find it ?” asked Wildash, rising. 

“ So kind of you, but don’t trouble. Josey 
knows just where it is. And now, Mrs. Cos- 
tello, when may I see you about dresses ? I 
want a tea-gown. I play my part in that, but 
a creation of a tea-gown, you understand ?” 

Harry’s glance spoke “ model,” and I 
assured her I had the very thing— so new, so 


i54 Vanity! ^ 

chic—hni she must see it. Leaving Wildash 
therefore to entertain Josey, I took her off to 
the other room, and the box containing our 
exhibit gown was brought in and the treasure 
displayed. 

She bought it on the spot, making me 
promise that I would not copy it for any one 
else. The charge for such exclusiveness was 
high. I had never made a more profitable 
bargain. 


Vanity! 


155 


CHAPTER XVI. 

December 20th . — Busy weeks . . . weeks 
crammed with orders, obligations, fault-find- 
ings, tempers, disputes, all the side-lights 
that feminine caprice can throw on the all- 
important duty of attiring itself in fine 
raiment. 

I am tired and weary of it all, and Wildash 
is away. He departed last week for Thornhill 
Manor, Lady Persiflage’s country house in 
Berks, and, from his letters, seems to be hav- 
ing an uncommonly good time of it. I miss 
him more than I could possibly have im- 
agined. It seems so strange to have no one 
to consult, or to interview travelers (that 
bete noire of the fashionable modiste)^ or advise 
customers. I never knew how many worries 
and bothers he had lifted ofl my shoulders till 
now. I marvel how I ever got on without 
him ! . . . 

“ Behind the scenes of any profession, 
business, or public employment has always its 
disenchanting side. I had the quarrels and 
jealousies of the workroom as well as the 


156 Vanity! 

showroom to combat. My chief assistant was, 
fortunately, possessed of an angelic temper, 
but she was the exception. Wrangling and 
back-biting, “tiffs” and tongue-slashing made 
things lively for all of us only too often, and 
when I gave “ a piece of my mind ” to any of 
the culprits it was no uncommon thing to see 
them fling down their work and march off, 
with the information that places as good as 
mine were to be had for the asking. A con- 
tretemps of this sort, in the midst of a large 
wedding order, was enough to upset any one’s 
temper, and I am afraid I lost mine oftener 
than was diplomatic. 

The reverse side of the shield showed itself 
to me in such fashion that I found myself cal- 
culating the shortest available time in which I 
could furnish myself with a retiring pension. 
Anything more trying to nerves, health and 
temper than the life of a fashionable dress- 
maker I cannot imagine, and I could not pic- 
ture my powers of endurance holding out for 
many years. 

In the midst of a despondent mood of this 
description I one day received a letter from 
Lady Persiflage to this effect : — 

“ Dear Mrs. CosTELLO,--We want you to run 
down for the theatricals on Christmas Eve . . . 
if only to see we do wear our gowns properly 


Vanity! 157 

and are a credit to the artist who composed 
them. Mr. Wildash is simply the life and soul 
of things here. And he does make us work. 
The play is going beautifully, and as for the 
‘ original ’ things he makes us do, and the way 
he has arranged the stage . . . well, but you’ll 
see for yourself. He says he can’t get on with- 
out you, so I promised to write. The 3.15 train 
will bring you down in time for tea on the 24th, 
and I hope you can stay over Boxing Day, for 
you won’t be required, you know, and a little 
change will do you good. Mind we shall ex- 
pect you.— Yours sincerely, 

“ Laura J. Persiflage.” 

The tone of this letter surprised me. It 
was not often that my customers remembered 
that a modiste might still be a lady, or had 
started life in the latter capacity before trying 
the former. From the fact of Lady Persiflage 
writing to me as to her equal (which little fact 
I put down to Wildash), I felt sure my birth 
and history had not wanted for skilful em- 
broidering at my partner’s hands. I laughed 
softly as I pictured him in that house, domi- 
nating and controlling every one in that cool, 
audacious fashion of his. The life and soul of 
all the fun, and yet keeping his head, and 
watching his opportunities— for future occa- 
sions. 


158 Vanity! 

I accepted the invitation even before I had 
his letter respecting it, and giving me what he 
called the “ lie of the land.” This consisted of 
a description of the various guests and sundry 
little liistoirettes, witty and naughty and risky 
enough, but sufficient to show I had nothing 
to fear by comparison. So Babette the faith- 
ful packed my trunk, and I dismissed my 
quarrelsome assistants with thankfulness, and 
left her and the page in charge of my establish- 
ment. 

It was a cold, wet evening when I arrived at 
the little country station mentioned by Lady 
Persiflage. A carriage was waiting for me, 
and about half an hour’s drive brought me to 
the house. It was too dark to judge of its ap- 
pearance. I was shown into the hall where 
the bright wood fire burnt brightly in the 
stately fireplace. I had a vision of old carved 
oak and brasses, and embossed shields. 

A crowd of people were there. Women in 
tea-gowns or coats and skirts as if they had 
just come in from park or covert ; several 
men stood about with cups in their hands. 
Among them Wildash. He looked by far the 
handsomest and most distinguished of them 
all. Lady Persiflage greeted me very cordially 
— so did Miss Calhoun and Josey Peck. The 
other women were inclined to be supercilious. 
After one brief regard they turned to their tea- 


Vanity! 159 

cups and muffins, chattering like sparrows on 
a house-top. Lady Persiflage gave me some 
tea and spoke of my journey, and murmured 
how good it was of me to come down at such 
short notice. 

I inquired after the rehearsals, and was told 
they were all perfect in their parts, and only 
longing to prove to the county how vastly 
superior the amateur was to the “ real ” thing. 

I caught Wildash’s eye, and if he did not 
wink the intention was self-evident. He found 
me a chair, and brought hot tea-cake, and 
declared himself unfeignedly glad to see me 
again. 

“ We had the dress rehearsal last night,” he 
said. “ I shall be glad when it’s all over. Fm 
getting sick of the business.” 

“ Were you as impudent to the amateur 
actress as you are to my clientele ? ” I asked 
him. 

“ Sometimes. When they tried me too far, 
or wanted to flirt in the midst of business. 
Women never seem to believe that there is a 
time to sink personality as well as to obtrude it.” 

“ And how do you get on with the men ? ” 

“ Well enough. They’re mostly out shoot- 
ing or hunting. But as I tell a good story and 
never shirk cards they’re uncommon civil. 
At first they were inclined to ignore me as an 
unknown quantity, but I soon altered that.” 


i6o Vanity! 

“ And how goes on V affaire Josey ? I 
asked. 

‘‘ It stands where it was as far as I am con- 
cerned.'’ 

“Who is that tall, pretty woman over there, 
leaning against the fireplace ? ” 

“ Tres simple, mais ires bien. That is Mrs. 
Tresyllian. Worth dresses her — good style. 
Husband — city or something. Stock exchange, 
I expect. Rolling in money. She acts the 
best of the lot.'’ 

“ Better than our hostess ? " 

“Yes— only it doesn’t do to say so. She is 
quite capable of the real thing should she 
ever be driven to it." 

“ Is her husband here ? " 

“No. I wrote you that they were never 
seen together — at country houses. A country 
house like this — especially.’’ 

“Why— this?’’ 

He laughed. “ It is one favored by semi- 
detached couples. Oh 1 perfectly innocent 
and right, but with such convenient arrange- 
ments for — unobserved intercourse 1 " 

“ How many scandals have you unearthed 
here ? ’’ I inquired, laughing. 

“ Too many to tell you in one evening.'’ 

“ Good gracious 1 " 

“You may well start. I seem to have an 
unfortunate knack of discovering things. And 


Vanity! i6i 

some people are veritable ostriches. Can I 
get you any more tea ? ” 

“ No, thank you. I will go to my room now 
I think." 

“ Any new gowns ? ’’ 

“ One — I’ll sport it to-night in honor of the 
theatricals." 

“You’re looking a little tired," he said. 
“ Have you had a bad time of it since I 
left?” 

“ Indeed, yes. The workroom people were 
so troublesome and there was so much to 
finish before Christmas." 

“ Well, a few days’ rest will set you up— at 
least if they’ll let you rest here. As a rule 
they’re all on the go from morning till night. 
No one goes to bed before one, or two." 

At this moment Josey Peck approached. 

“ ril take you to your room if you like," she 
said. “ Lady Persiflage has given you the 
one next mine." 

I rose at once, not sorry to get away and 
have a chance of rest before dressing for 
dinner. 

“ Momma ain’t here," Miss Josey informed 
me as I threw off my traveling wraps and 
looked round the pretty, chintz-covered room. 
“ I got her asked to a duchess’s place way 
down Warwickshire. I had to come here 
because Pm acting in Lady Per.’s play. 

11 


i 62 


Vanity! 

Always call her that. Life ain’t long enough 
for such double-barreled names as she holds 
on to.” 

“ It’s a new title, but they’re an old family,” 
I observed. 

“ Oh ! your old families 1 I guess I’m sick 
of hearing about them. The decent ones are 
as poor as rats, and the others always mortgag- 
ing and selling things, including themselves. 
Did you hear Fd refused Lord Pelham ? ” 

“ No, was it in the Court Circular?” 

“ That’s real smart, but I don’t bear you any 
grudge. I guess I can take my dollars to a 
better market. Besides, he drinks like a 
bargee.” 

“ Our aristocracy are singularly adapted for 
republican favors,” I observed. “ Their prin- 
ciples and constitutions seem equally weak.” 

“ Wal, I guess your present earls and dukes 
ain’t much like the pictures of their ancestors 
in the painting galleries. Maybe it’s the wigs 
or the armor made them look important. I 
wouldn’t have minded marryin’ one, but there 
ain’t nothing about these titled folks now to 
show they’re different to ordinary ones. 

“ Indeed, the ordinary are the aristocrats. 
Look at Wildash now. He’s all right. No 
need to worry about his descent. Looks blue 
blood all through. You never see him drunk, 
and these other men, why, they just soak. 


Vanity! 163 

You’ll see to-night. It’s awful. I do hate to 
see a man in liquor, don’t you, Mrs. Cos- 
tello ? ” 

I agreed. 

“ He’s a darling man,” she went on, with a 
sigh. “ If only he’d get that title I’d jump at 
him. I’ve dollars enough, but momma would 
be just mad if I was plain Mrs. I could have 
been that in New York.” 

“Tell me,” I said, “do all you American 
girls come over to this country with the idea 
of ‘ catching a title ’ ? It looks like it.” 

“ Wal, I guess we do look around with that 
view,” she said frankly. “ Seems kind of 
funny, don’t it ? But your people began it. 
They made such an almighty fuss over us 
Americans, and we could cheek them as we 
liked, and yet princes and peerages and all that 
sort simply cottoned to us. We didn’t under- 
stand it at first. Guess we look upon it as our 
right now.” 

I leant back in my chair and surveyed the 
frank young republican with some amusement. 
I knew that the Peck dollars had sprung from 
a very unsavory source, that Josey herself had 
been nothing particular in her own country, 
where her family history was only a startling 
transformation scene. And to see her here, 
perfectly at home among people of birth and 
race, and critical as to ducal suitors, was just 


164 Vanity! 

one of those “ eye-openers ” that society seems 
to delight in. 

I was silent so long that she concluded I was 
tired, and after offering the services of her 
maid, which I declined, she took herself off. 

I threw on a loose wrapper and lay down for 
half an hour. Rest and a subsequent douche 
of cold water and eau-de-Cologne were my un- 
failing recipes for the nerves and complexion. 

When I went down to dinner I had the 
satisfaction of meeting many surprised and 
admiring glances. 

Lady Persiflage was talking and laughing at 
the top of her voice. “ Let’s have a scramble 
to-night,” she said. “We are rather late as it 
is, and I can’t waste more time in sorting you 
out. Take whom you please and follow me. 
Come, Mr. Wildash, I choose you.” 

She darted off, laughing and chattering, and 
there was a general rush and scrimmage in the 
hasty choice of partners. 

A voice in my ear said suddenly, “ Mrs. Cos- 
tello, allow me to take you in.” 

I looked up, surprised, into the face of Cap- 
tain Calhoun. 


Vanity! 


165 


CHAPTER XVII. 

There was a good deal of noise and con- 
fusion before the various couples were seated 
and at their soup. 

I turned to my neighbor. “ Is this a new 
fashion ? ” I inquired. 

“ Oh, it’s been in some time, I believe. 
Rather good fun, don’t you think ? One does 
get a chance of sitting next the person one 
wants, instead of doing duty by right of pre- 
cedence. Lady Per. often does it.” 

I declined soup and looked thoughtfully 
round the table. The new fashion seemed to 
have suited them all amazingly, judging from 
appearances. Josey Peck had managed to 
secure a seat the other side of Wildash, and 
emulated Lady Per.’s pert chatter so skilfully 
that he had only to listen to both with equal 
indifference. I wondered at the absence of 
Lady Farringdon. When certain members of 
society “ hunt in couples,” one naturally looks 
for that partnership on such occasions as the 
present. 

“ How well your sister is looking,” I ob- 
served, when my scrutiny had satisfied me. 


i66 


Vanity! 

“ Yes, she keeps up wonderfully, doesn’t she ? 
Time’s getting near now.” 

“ The duke is not here ? ” I questioned. 

“ No. Deeds and settlements and things 
and a slight touch of gout. He’s at the Castle. 
Wanted us for Christmas, but not this child, 
thank you. I like to go where I know I’ll be 
amused.” 

“ It’s very lively here, I suppose ? ” 

“ Rather,” he said with emphasis. “ Liberty 
Hall if you like.” Then, after a pause, he said 
in a low tone, “ You’ve no idea how glad I 
was to hear you were coming. I never get 
the chance of a word with you in town.” 

I stared at him in surprise. Then I laughed. 
“ I was not aware you had any special reason 
for a word with me. Surely Miss Calhoun — ” 

“It’s not about her, and do drop ‘shop’ 
like a dear creature. I never can and never 
shall associate you with business. Seems sacri- 
lege, you know. There’s no woman I’ve ever 
admired so much.” 

My amazement increased. To it was added 
a slight indignation. 

“You flatter me,” I said, with some hauteur. 
“ And please remember I am a woman of busi- 
ness, as you call it, and any form of admira- 
tion must be strictly professional.” 

He laughed. “ A pretty woman can never 
be wholly and entirely a business woman. 


Vanity! 167 

Her glass won’t let her, and men have 
eyes 1 ” 

“ I don’t deny that. But supposing she 
doesn’t set any importance on optical de- 
lusions ? ” 

“She wouldn’t belie her sex by such an im- 
moral proceeding.” 

“I think, Captain Calhoun, that men don’t 
understand my sex so well as they pretend to 
do. I assure you there are many things more 
gratifying and more important than the admi- 
ration you suggest.” 

I was both irritated and astonished at his 
manner. It conveyed to me something I had 
no desire to have explained. 

“Where is Lady Farringdon ?” I went on 
hurriedly. “ I fully expected to find her here.” 

He frowned slightly. “ She is doing a round 
of visits also. She is due here first week of 
the new year.” 

“And you talk like this pour passer le 
temps f ” 

“ That’s a base insinuation. I’ve known you 
a year, and my admiration dates its birth from 
our first meeting.” 

“Indeed. That does not speak well for 
your constancy. Captain Calhoun.^’ 

“You mustn’t believe there’s anything in 
these stories,” he said, a dark flush rising to 
his brow. “We’re very good friends, and I’ve 


1 68 Vanity! 

known her years and years, but there’s nothing 
else.” 

A scream of laughter from the other side of 
the table interrupted us. Calhoun frowned. 

“ Wildash is a perfect Merry Andrew,” he 
muttered. “He plays court jester morning, 
noon and night. Lady Per. spoils him. As 
for that American girl, she almost throws her- 
self at his head. I don’t know what they see 
in him, unless it's his consummate cheek.” 

“ Isn't that the chief element of modern 
popularity ?” 

“ Oh 1 I forgot you and he are great pals. 
Partner or something, isn’t he?” 

“Yes. He has simply doubled my income 
and connection.” 

“ There's a lot to be made out of it, I sup- 
pose, if one knows the ropes.” 

“ A fortune,” I said quietly. 

He looked enviously at Wildash. 

“ He'd give it up I suppose if he came into 
the title. It would be rather infra dig.y 
wouldn't it ? ” 

“ That’s a matter of opinion. The Countess 
of Warwick has her name over a shop. A 
relative of the Royal family is in the tea trade. 
Lord Rosslyn is an actor; the Duchess of 
Sutherland an authoress ; Countess Russell a 
comic opera singer ; the German Emperor a 
dramatist and composer-— Wildash will be in 


' Vanity! 169 

good company even if he has the misfortune 
to become a baronet.” 

“ It was a queer idea all the same.” 

“ It was an inspiration of genius. It is not 
what a man does but what he is that degrades 
or ennobles him.” 

“You’re one of his champions, I see, Mrs. 
Costello.” 

“ I certainly consider his life more useful 
than that of half the men of the present day. 
Men who are less intellectual than apes, and 
not half as amusing. Who call it ‘ honor ' to 
gamble away their ancient homes and cheat 
their tradesmen, and whose sole notion of love 
is to compromise married women 1 ” 

“ Great Scot 1 What an indictment 1 ” 

He refused the sorbet and turned to look 
at me. 

“ Do you really mean all that ?” he asked. 

“ You can't deny its truth.” 

“ No — 'pon my soul I can’t. But it sounds 
so — old-fashioned and churchy to hear a 
woman talk like that.” 

“ Does it ?” I said. “Well, put it down to 
my ignorance, I am not ‘ in ’ society, only a 
looker-on.” 

“ That’s why you see most of the games ?” 

“ Exactly. They are very amusing some- 
times, also they teach a moral lesson.” 

“ Moral lesson,” he repeated vaguely. 


i7o Vanity! 

“ Yes — of avoidance. I wouldn’t be in one 
of these games, not for all the Peck dollars, 
Captain Calhoun.” 

He finished his dinner in silence after that. 

There was a general movement when Lady 
Persiflage rose. Almost every one was en- 
gaged in the theatricals, and all were anxious 
about the dressing. She seized upon me as 
her own particular adviser in the matter of 
“ make-up,” and I gave my services to her 
and Mrs. Tresyllian, who dressed in the same 
room. I was lost in admiration of this woman. 
She was absolutely lovely, and the personifica- 
tion of grace. It was a pleasure to dress her, 
and decidedly I envied Worth. 

Lady Persiflage was refreshing her memory 
and rattling off speeches and “ cues ” in a 
most bewildering fashion. 

“Will it go, Tessie, do you think?” she 
asked her friend anxiously. “ I shall die of 
vexation if it doesn’t.” 

Mrs. Tresyllian opined that it would be all 
right, as she surveyed her profile with a hand- 
glass. 

“ There’s a lot of people coming,” continued 
Lady Persiflage. “ I told Pops to receive 
them ” ( Pops was the individual who had the 
honor of being her husband ). “ He won’t 

like it, of course, but I couldn’t rush my 


Vanity! 17 1 

dressing for a lot of county fogies. Men are 
so abominably selfish, don’t you think so, Mrs. 
Costello ? Oh, you’re lucky, you’re a widow. 
. . . Isn’t that eyebrow a little . . . little 
. . . ? No, you think not ? Very well— I 
depend on you. Now, I’ll stand under the 
light and you go to the other end of the room 
and tell me how I look.” 

“ Charming,” was my verdict, as I obeyed 
her wishes. “ If you act as well as you look 
the piece will be a success,” I added. 

She laughed gaily. “ Oh 1 Wildash is a 
splendid prompter. Indeed, he’s an encyclo- 
pedia of useful knowledge — nothing comes 
amiss. He knocked up some Cairo screens, 
and enameled some old chairs for the stage 
into dreams of beauty, and the way he’s done 
the room. Isn’t it too sweet for anything, 
Tessie ? ” 

“ He has great inventiveness,” said Mrs. 
Tresyllian ; “ it almost amounts to a talent. 
And a wonderful memory.” 

“Yes, he can tell us all our parts without 
the book. How goes the time, Tessie ? We 
begin at nine-thirty, don’t we ? ” 

“ It’s almost on the stroke. I’m quite ready 
if you are.” 

They gave a last anxious look at the mirror, 
gathered up their trains and “parts,” and 
swept out of the room. 


172 Vanity! 

I followed them and found a seat with some 
difficulty. Most of the people had arrived, 
and “ Pops” had conscientiously received and 
seated them. There was no orchestra, but a 
piano duet gave forth the overture to the Tan- 
buflth, and almost on the last chord the 
curtain divided on either side the stage and 
showed the “boudoir of Lady St. Pierre's 
town house,” so said the program. 

It was really a charming little play and 
wonderfully well acted. Lady Persiflage was 
so suited to her own part that she had only to 
be herself. Mrs Tresyllian struck a deeper 
note, and acted with almost professional 
ability. I am not quite sure that the county 
quite grasped the plot, or understood half the 
“ smart ” things the characters said, but they 
laughed a good deal and applauded graciously, 
and seemed quite surprised at the shortness 
of the piece and the magnificence of the 
gowns. I fancy the tea-gown shocked one or 
two matrons, but then some people’s nerves 
are so sensitive that very little upsets them. 
For my part I enjoyed the performance im- 
mensely. 

There was to be an interval of twenty 
minutes between the little comedy and the 
next piece. They had chosen “ Lady Winder- 
mere's Fan ” for the latter. 

I knew no one near me, so, under cover of 


Vanity! 173 

the talk and laughter, I rose and made my 
way to the hall where coffee was being 
served. Here Wildash joined me — cool and 
unruffled and apparently heedless of responsi- 
bilities. 

I congratulated him on his qualifications for 
stage managership. 

“ It was hard work, I can tell you,” he 
answered. “I am going to have a whisky 
and soda and a cigarette to keep me up be- 
tween the parts. They’re all worrying about 
their wigs. Clarkson sent the wrong sort or 
something. I left them to fight it out. I’ve 
just about had enough of it. Josey was very 
‘ cute ’ in her part, wasn’t she ? ” 

“ Excellent,” I agreed. “ Oh ! here she 
comes.” 

“ Then I’m off,” and he slipped away. 

The little American came in, followed by a 
crowd of men, with whom she kept up a run- 
ning fire of conversation. 

She had not removed her “ make-up ” and 
wore the same dress. As it was one of my 
own creations, I was qualified to admire it. 

“ That will do,” she said to one of her fol- 
lowing. “ You can catch up your resolutions 
at leisure. It’s quite plain you know nothing 
about my part in the play, or you wouldn’t 
have said I was ‘ awfully good.’ I was bad 
. . . downright bad. Adventuress, and all 


1 74 Vanity! 

that. Tessie Tresyllian was the good woman. 
Oh 1 Mrs. Costello, where's Wildash ? I do 
want to shake hands with him. He pulled 
me through just wonderful. ... Not here ? 
I call that a shame. Well, Fm going to 
smoke. No coffee, thanks. Keeps me awake, 
and weVe all got to show up at church to- 
morrow— Lady Per. insists. It’s the one day 
in the year she must grace the family pew — 
house-party, servants and all. Guess Fm 
goin’ for the experience. I haven’t spent an 
English Christmas yet. What do you all do 
when the bells ring at midnight ?” 

“ Kiss under the mistletoe,” said Captain 
Calhoun. 

“ Guess you don’t kiss this child. She 
draws the line at anything promiscuous.” 

She lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of 
smoke from her saucy lips. Then perched 
herself on the edge of a table and swung her 
tiny high-heeled shoes to and fro for all be- 
holders to marvel at. 

“ She’s a true child of her country, isn’t 
she ? ” murmured Calhoun, drawing closer to 
me. “Awful fun to draw her out. Level- 
headed as they make them. Got a coronet 
in her eye, and won’t take anything less. 
‘ Haloes ’ she calls ’em. Asked my sister if 
she was going to wear hers at her wedding. 
What ideas they have 1 ” 


Vanity! 175 

How did you like the comedy ? " I asked. 

“ Not half bad. Lady Per.’s clever, ain’t 
she ? Fancy writing and acting that.” 

“ Marvelous,” I said dryly. “As surprising 
as if a butterfly took to making honey.” 

“Well, it is. Because she’s no need to do 
it, and writing’s precious hard work. At least 
I find it so. Always shirk letters.” 

I looked at him. Six foot of ornamental 
bone and muscle, good for shooting, hunting, 
billiards and baccarat, smokes and drinks, and 
unequal to the task of composing or writing 
an ordinary letter. 

“I’m an awfully lazy beggar,” he went on 
confidentially. “ I say, Mrs. Costello, come 
out of this crowd. I want to talk to you. 
You did pitch into me at dinner, but I bear 
you no ill-will.” 

“That is good of you,” I said, moving away 
to a seat near the great fireplace. “ I’ll 
promise not to do it again if you’ll behave 
yourself.” 

“ That means — ” 

“ Not paying me silly compliments.” 

“ I won’t,” he said earnestly. “ Somehow, 
you’re different to the others. They expect it. 
Every observation must have a sugar plum of 
flattery. One gets into the way of it at last.” 

“ I thought even worldly women were wiser 
than that.” 


176 Vanity! 

“No, they’re not. Because they are worldly.” 

I shrugged my shoulder. “ A synonym for 
senselessness and exaggeration.” 

“You’re very hard on your sex, I fancy, 
Mrs. Costello.” 

“ Perhaps I’ve opportunities of judging 
them not given to many. A woman treats her 
modiste as frankly as she does her looking- 
glass, and the looking-glass reflects^ you must 
remember.” 

“ By Jove — that’s clever 1 ” he said admir- 
ingly. “ I wonder sometimes you didn’t go 
in for something different from this sort of 
life, don’t you know. Seems you’re thrown 
away on it.” 

“What would you suggest in its place as 
lucrative — of course ? ” 

“ Well, the stage, or writing. Women make 
pots of money out of a successful book, I hear.’* 

“ Exactly. A successful book. But how 
many women’s books are successful ? ” 

He ran over a few names. I laughed. “ I 
could make the sum they get for a book out of 
one gown,” I said, “with less trouble, and less 
anxiety.” 

“ No — really. . . . I’ve heard ’em say — ” 

“ Oh 1 my dear Captain Calhoun, never be- 
lieve what authors tell you as to the profits of 
their profession. Go to a publisher if you 
want to know that.” 


177 


Vanity! 

“Well — the stage. That pays. And any 
one who looks and acts like a lady is pretty 
sure of parts in up-to-date comedies.” 

“ My friend Mrs. Abercroft dresses most of 
the leading actresses,” I said. “ I know quite 
enough of the stage to make it as undesirable 
a profession as literature. And why this 
anxiety on my behalf? I counted the cost 
well before I took up my present line of busi- 
ness. I have no reason to regret it. There 
are attendant worries and anxieties— true— but 
who is without them ? And now we have 
talked enough of myself and my affairs. I see 
a movement to return to the other room. 
Shall we go ? ” 

He offered me his arm. “They are to 
dance afterwards,” he said. “ May I have the 
honor of the cotillion ? ” 

“ It is promised,” I said quietly. 

He looked vexed. “ Fm sorry Fm too late. 
A waltz then ? ” 

I nodded. “ Yes. Fve no program, but—” 

“ I’ll ask for the first then, and I’ll bring 
you a program after this piece is over. You 
couldn’t . . . get out of the cotillion engage- 
ment ? ” he questioned. 

“ I have no wish to. Fm engaged for it to 
Mr. Wildash.” 

“ Oh 1 d n Wildash 1 ” he muttered. 

12 


178 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

I WENT to my room in the early hours, tired 
yet elated. Not a woman present had re- 
ceived more attention or admiration than 
myself, and “Who is she?” had hovered on 
many lips. Wildash had been as amusing 
and delightful as ever, and both Lady Persi- 
flage and Josey Peck were envious of his 
devotion to me — if it could be called devotion. 

Whatever it looked like to others, to our- 
selves it was only “ camaraderie.'' We jested, 
criticized, gossiped and laughed like two 
children over the guests and incidents of the 
evening. I had never enjoyed myself so 
much — never since I had retired from any 
prominent position in society — that curious 
institution component of so many sets and 
layers that one may ascend or descend with- 
out fear of recognition from one part, or inter- 
ference from another. 

I was too tired to do anything but go to bed 
and sleep, and I was none too well pleased at 
being aroused next morning at ten o’clock, 
although my breakfast was brought to me. 


Vanity! 179 

But Lady Per. had insisted we should all go 
to church by way of example to the county, 
and I had faithfully promised to do so. 

It was cold and frosty. The sun was shin- 
ing brightly, and a ten minutes’ walk took 
us to the pretty, old-fashioned building that 
was suffering desecration from a fashionable 
ritual. 

The service and vestments were of the most 
advanced order. The priests as pompous and 
self-important as their kind. The service 
mainly composed of choral singing and elimina- 
tion from the old-fashioned form of the Church 
service ; the sermon — a reiteration of fallacies 
and dogmas— delivered with the eloquence of 
a Board-school prize pupil. 

In London I rarely went to church. It only 
irritated and amazed me. A modern fashion- 
able preacher would not condescend to explain 
a doctrine or give any sort of comfort or aid to 
a conscientious seeker after truth. He would 
refer one to “the Church,” and the Church, in 
the parlance of a ritualist priest, is about the 
most comfortless and irreligious institution that 
modernity has invented. 

However, we did our duty “ according to that 
state of life ” in which we were placed, and 
abused everything soundly on our return 
journey. Life in a country house is mainly 
composed of eating, drinking and flirting. 


i8o Vanity! 

Then came a heavy luncheon; after which 
the men drifted off to smoking, or billiard-room, 
or went for a walk, and the women retired to 
sleep off the previous night’s fatigue, till five 
o’clock allowed of an elaborate display of tea- 
gowns in the hall. 

“ Christmas day is always the dullest and 
most depressing in the whole year,” exclaimed 
Lady Per., smothering a yawn. “It is the 
essence of fifty Sundays rolled into one.” 

“ I’d read such a lot about English Christmas- 
time,” said Josey Peck’s shrill voice. “ I guess 
it ain’t much like story-books. No robins 
hoppin’ about ; or skatin’, and mistletoe boughs 1 
And you all seem kind o’ melancholy.” 

“ We are reviewing our past misdeeds,” said 
Wildash. “ It is a duty laid upon us by our 
consciences, and we perform it once a year 
—generally at Christmas-time. Our self-ex- 
amination reaches a climax on the last day of 
the old year, when we fast in sackcloth and 
ashes till the midnight hour. As the bell be- 
gins to ring we rise to new hopes we never 
realize ; make new vows we never keep, and 
take into our purified hands the Book of New 
Leaves that we never turn over.” 

“ I guess you’re funny people,” said Josey, 
regarding him shrewdly. “ As for you, Mr. 
Wildash, I never do know if you’re poking fun 
at me, or meanin’ what you say. But I kalker- 


Vanity! i8i 

late you’d best lose no time in turnin’ over one 
of those new leaves yourself.” 

“Why? Surely, Miss Peck, you’ve no fault 
to find with my moral structure ? ” 

“ Wal, I can give a pretty good guess at the 
amount of ‘ morality ’ it contains,” she said. 
“ Seems you don’t believe much in men or 
women ; ain’t that so ? ” 

“ I believe in them as long as they permit. 
People cease to interest when we find their — 
limitations.” 

“ How d’you know you’ve reached the end 
of the rope ? Lots of folks only give you a 
little piece and hold the rest back for fear of 
accidents.” 

“Then Tots of folks ’ seem so fearful of the 
accident that they wear out the rope with hold- 
ing on to it.” 

“ Don’t let us get metaphorical. It’s so 
wearing to the nerves. And that high-and-dry 
style o’ talkin’ don’t suit me. Bring me 
another cup of tea and I’ll tell you the last thing 
I heard about momma.” 

“Why do American girls always say ‘mom- 
ma’ ?” asked Captain Calhoun in a low voice, 
as he bent down for my empty cup. “It sounds 
so silly.” 

“ They’re brought up that way, I suppose. 
Doubtless our stolid ‘ mother ’ sounds just as 
strange to their ears.” 


i 82 Vanity! 

“ What would you all care to do this eve- 
ning ? ” chimed in Lady Per. “ Dance, charades, 
cards ? We Ve only ourselves, you know. 
Unless Mrs. Jackey Beauchamp comes. She 
faithfully promised. But one can never de- 
pend on her 1 ” 

There was a moment of interest 

“ Jackey coming. Oh! how delightful ! ” 

“Yes. She’s been staying with the New- 
lands at the Abbey. She wasn’t at church 
though. She promised to dine and sleep here 
to-night.” 

“ She never keeps her word,” murmured 
Mrs. Tresyllian. 

“ How did Newlands get her?” asked Cap- 
tain Calhoun. “ Not quite her sort, are they ? ” 

“ She rather took them up after they bought 
the Abbey. Detestable people — but oh ! their 
money ! ” 

“ Usual story nowadays,” drawled the Cap- 
tain. “ We’re all selling ourselves for a mess 
o’ pottage.” 

“They give very good pottage,” laughed 
Lady Per. “ But they’re rather ‘ cut ’ down 
here. No one liked the Abbey going out of 
the family, and though the Beauchamps were 
short of ‘ shekels ’ they were very popular.” 

“ Beastly pity . . . good families ... so 
poor,” murmured Teddy Fitzgerald, who was 
a younger son and in the Guards, and had 


Vanity! 183 

more debts than he could possibly remember 
or even intended to pay. 

He was far too lazy to utter a consecutive 
sentence, and merely dropped two or three 
words at intervals when the labor of conversa- 
tion was forced upon him. 

“ It is,” agreed Mrs. Tresyllian. “And one 
hates having these rich surprises sprung on 
one. I couldn’t believe when I heard the 
Abbey had been sold.” 

“We’re all asked to the New Year Eve 
ball,” said Lady Persiflage. “ ’Twill be rather 
fun, and we needn’t notice them, you know. 
They’re sure to do the thing well. Any one 
want more tea ? ” 

As she asked the question the 'portieres were 
suddenly swept aside and there entered a 
woman with a clear-skinned face, very large 
and brilliant eyes and an expression and man- 
ner that were indescribably impertinent. She 
was tall and very slight, and round her and 
about her was that crowning perfection which 
comes from a thorough knowledge of detail. 
Her hair, her gown, her gloves, were all of 
the right stamp of elegance in mode and 
design. 

As she stood there, the heavy velvet form- 
ing a background for her figure, and her eyes, 
brilliant and audacious, sweeping the crowd 
of faces, she made a picture of wonderful 


184 Vanity! 

effect. Yet only a picture. One seemed to 
recognize the art and the beauty and the 
effectiveness, and miss out of it any warmth, 
or heart, or nature. 

Lady Per. sprang to her feet with a cry of 
delight. “Why, lackey!” she exclaimed. 
“You don’t mean it’s you ?” 

“ Yes, my tweest,” answered the newcomer, 
suffering herself to be kissed on both her cool 
white cheeks. “ I couldn’t stand the Newsies 
any longer. It got positively diskie. Yes, 
really. And how are you all? Tizzy-wizzy 
. . . that’s right. How do, Teddy? And is 
that my capty ?” (this to Calhoun, with whom 
she shook hands at shoulder-angle). “ Look- 
ing like Patience on a tombstone, I do declare ! 
Give me some tea. Pussy. I’m frozen with 
cold.” 

She threw off her furs for the nearest man 
to catch, and sank into a chair by the fire. 

I remained outside the group she favored 
with her attention, absolutely fascinated by 
this revelation of le vrai monde of whom I 
had heard a thousand stories. Mrs. lackey 
Beauchamp was a social star of great magni- 
tude. Not only was she “in ” everything that 
was worth being in, but she set particular 
fashions and had been crowned queen of a set 
who were ultra “ smart.” It was for their 
benefit and guidance she had invented a code 


Vanity! 185 

of expressions not to be understood of mere 
outsiders. She was the most noted and the 
most quoted of celebrities at home, and the 
Post and the Court Circular and the World 
and various smaller luminaries of the Press 
always had her name in their social columns. 
How she managed to be everywhere and do 
everything ; to ride, golf, skate, dance, drive 
and dress as she did, was one of those marvels 
fashionable women daily present to the world 
they rule. But there was no denying she was 
a great power. Her terrible extravagances 
and her load of debts had never cost her a 
wrinkle or an anxious hour. Her set adored 
her. Her nod and smile were the hall-mark 
of approbation for which no sacrifice was too 
great. Even when an irate dressmaker had 
had the audacity to sue her husband for a bill 
his wife had ignored, and Mrs. Jackey had to 
appear in a public court to be confronted with 
the extravagant details of her toilets, her 
hold on popularity did not suffer. Mr. Jack 
Beauchamp was pronounced a brute and a 
miser and utterly undeserving of so wonderful 
a wife. The wonderful wife went to other 
dressmakers and ran up still more extravagant 
bills, and left her lord and master to the 
world’s opprobium and the solace of other 
martyred husbands. 

No one had skated over thinner ice, or 


i86 


Vanity! 

skipped over more dangerous quicksands than 
Mrs. Jackey. She knew all sorts of people and 
“ took up ” the oddest if they could be of any 
use to her. 

“ How can you know such a sweep ?” had 
asked one of her intimes a propos of some very 
objectionable and fabulously rich vulgarian 
she had asked to dinner. “ My sweeps clean 
my chimneys,” she had answered. And the 
story went round the clubs and endeared her 
still more to the “ smarts ” and the “ souls ” 
and the ultra chic of her world. 

Knowing all these things I naturally was 
deeply interested in this modern heroine. I 
wished soon that I owned a social glossary, for 
the words and expressions falling like hail 
around me were like an unknown language. 
When Mrs. Jackey spoke of a “ Man-man ” I was 
ignorant that she referred to the Prince, and 
“ diskie,” and “ expie,” and “ hoy,” and “ tellie ” 
were equally incomprehensible. 

Wildash, who sat beside me, silent perforce, 
was intensely interested in this newcomer. I 
fancied he was studying her for future use. Her 
impertinences and audacities rivaled his own. 

The way she ridiculed the people with whom 
she had been staying seemed to me the worst 
possible taste, but every one else in the room 
screamed with laughter as if it was an excel- 
lent joke to ridicule people who had lavished 


Vanity! 187 

their wealth and time and attention upon your 
entertainment. 

She talked at express speed, never at a loss 
for a word, and rarely waiting for an answer. 
She nick-named every one she knew, so that it 
was difficult to guess whom she meant. I dis- 
covered that Lady Per. was “ Pussy,” as a play 
on the word “ purr,” but some other abbrevi- 
ations remained a mystery. 

There was no doubt, however, about her 
success, especially with her own sex. That at 
least marked her of no ordinary cleverness, for 
few popular women are favorites with their 
less appreciated sisterhood. 

“ Did you see the Abbey ghost, lackey ? ” 
asked Lady Per. in an interval of comparative 
silence. 

“ See it. No. I only played it on my own,” 
she said. “Scared them into fittenus, poor 
dears. Old Newsie ” (short for Mr. Bartholo- 
mew Newlands, the new owner of the Abbey) 
“ had a mania for poking about corridors and 
places when he wasn’t wanted— looking after 
the heating pipes, he said — scared of fire he 
was. Just as if he had ancestral rights, instead 
of being quite un-progy, not even a ‘ granfy ’ 
to be traced, you know. Well, I thought Fd 
scary him a bit. So I covered my face with 
luminous paint and did myself into a white 
nightie, and when I knew he’d be coming 


i88 Vanity! 

along, hid behind a curtain and whiffed out 
his light. Of course he turned, and, heavens 
above 1 the yell he gave would have wakened 
the dead in the churchyard. He dropped the 
candle and fled ! I slipped back into my 
room, and presently joined the crowd of hurry- 
scurries. Newsie took to bed. Believed he’d 
had a warning. That was two days ago. No 
one has seen him since.” 

“ Don’t play tricks like that here,” said Lady 
Per. “ Remember we have a ghost also. It’s 
four hundred years old, I think. It’s a man 
ghost. An old man who holds a lantern and 
goes peering about the north corridor. How- 
ever, no one’s sleeping there now, so you 
needn’t be skeery.” 

“Vote we tell ghost stories after dinner. A 
prize for the best,” exclaimed Mrs. lackey. “ I 
only know one, but it’s quite too creepy — 
makes one go goose-skinny all over. Why 
does one say ‘ goose ’ skin ; why not chicken 
or turkey ?” 

“What’s the prize to be?” asked Teddy 
Fitzgerald. 

“ And who’s to give it ?” asked Calhoun. 

“ Oh 1 lackey, of course,” said Lady Per., 
“ and we’ll use the cotillion presents. A ciga- 
rette case for a man, and a — ” 

“A case of cigarettes for a woman,” chimed 
in Mrs. lackey Beauchamp. 


Vanity! 189 

“ Ah 1 there’s the dressing-bell, Jackey ; let 
me show you your room,” said Lady Per. 

Mrs. Jackey rose languidly. “ I always wish 
you had the Abbey, my twee,” she said. 
“ Much more titty. To think of Newsie in 
that lovely old place, and Mrs. Newsie, a fat 
old frump with a soul attuned to water, gruel 
and hot bottles 1 so quite too altogether diskie, 
isn’t it ? ” 

She received her furs from the hands of 
Teddy Fitzgerald and left the room with 
Lady Persiflage. 

Wildash looked at me. “ She’s seen you, 
but pretends not,” he said very low. “ Look 
your best to-night — Biz 1 ” 


Vanity! 


190 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A SHIMMERING, glittering vision swept into 
the drawing-room as dinner was announced. 
This represented Mrs. lackey Beauchamp in 
what she termed a “ demi-teagie.” Translated 
this appeared as a compromise between tea- 
gown and evening dress. But it was very 
exquisite and very self-revealing, and pleased 
my professional eye immensely. 

Somewhat to my surprise Lady Per. asked 
Wildash to take in the new arrival, and from 
the opposite side of the table I could see that 
they were mutually entertaining one another. 
I was less happily suited, having been told off 
to the languid Guardsman. I therefore de- 
voted myself to my dinner and — observation. 

It was the proverbial Christmas dinner, at- 
tended by the proverbial discomfort in the 
digestive regions. Lady Per. had hot punch 
brought in with the dessert as a “ corrective,” 
so she said, and the party waxed noisy and 
frolicsome in proof of its excellence. 

What with cosaques and crackers and punch 
it was quite late before we settled down for 


Vanity! 19 1 

the ghost stories. The hall was chosen as 
being more cosy and free-and-easy than the 
drawing-room, and the men joined us there 
with quite remarkable celerity. 1 put it down 
to Mrs. lackey Beauchamp's powers of attrac- 
tion. That wonderful person swept up to me 
as we were arranging seats and cushions. 

“ So glad to meet you," she exclaimed. 
“ Have heard so much about you in town. 
That ‘ model reception ' was on every one's 
tongue. How was it you didn't ask me ? Not 
that I could have come, I was at Monte Carlo. 
Still, don't forget next time. Pussy showed 
me the tea-gown you designed— quite too 
deevie, I thought. You must do me a smok- 
ing coat — I’ll give you the idea — I intend to 
make them the rage this season, and I'll send 
all my ‘ pals ' to you. I get my ‘ cossies ' in 
Paris — I suppose you buy there ? Charming 
—that Irishman — your partner, isn’t he? 
Fancy his going in for dressmaking. Oh 1 
shall certainly pay you a visit— only you must 
give me long creddy. My husband’s an awful 
screw. Thinks I can dress on twelve hun- 
dred 1 Ridicky, isn’t it ?" 

“ In your position, and with your reputation, 
it certainly is," I agreed. 

“ Of course. Perfectly diskie what we poor 
wives have to put up with 1 Why, ‘undies' 
alone run me into hundreds. I always match 


192 


Vanity! 

my gowns ; couldn’t wear one unless all the 
‘ neathies ’ were in keeping. Are you staying 
here long ? ” 

“ I only came down for the theatricals. I 
return to-morrow night.” 

“ Horrid weather for traveling, and every 
one away. Why go ? So comfy here. And 
there’ll be no bisny worth speaking of. Ah I 
Pussy, leave that cushion— Bags I.” 

She moved away to a divan near the great 
open fireplace and threw herself down against 
a background of orange and terra-cotta, that 
was an admirable foil to her sleek black head 
and white skin. 

The men by her directions formed a semi- 
circle round the fire. The lights were low- 
ered, cigars and cigarettes permitted, and the 
order to commence ghost story. 

No. I. was issued by this dominating power. 

It was a very feeble story and very feebly 
told. Indeed, the first three or four were 
as inoffensively supernatural as Mr. Stead’s 
“ Julia.” Wildash went one better by giving 
an Irish Banshee story. Then came Mrs. 
lackey’s one which for blood-curdling horror 
was unsurpassable, only it lacked any element 
of probability, and was evidently a wild ex- 
aggeration of traditional materials. 

It was close on the stroke of twelve when it 
fell to Lady Per.’s lot to tell the story of the 


193 


Vanity! 

H ghost, and of all the tales this was 

listened to with the greatest interest on ac- 
count of its present and possible associations. 

It appeared from the story that a certain 

lord of H , some four hundred years 

back, had a very beautiful daughter of whom 
he was inordinately proud. They were good 
and stanch Catholics in those days, and to 
the house came frequently a young and hand- 
some priest of Italian origin. The beautiful 
daughter was studious, and inclined to emu- 
late the Lady Jane Grey. The priest taught 
her Latin, and instructed her in such beauties 
of Italian poesy as had won recognition. She 
had no mother and her father was unsus- 
picious. While Francesca and Paolo was 
being daily enacted, he guessed nothing, and 
his ignorance might have lasted indefinitely 
but for an unfortunate circumstance. This 
was the discovery of a letter slipped between 
the leaves of a book of Plato’s. 

The letter was from the priestly lover, and 
revealed more than was prudent. The father, 
aghast and terror-struck, resolved on venge- 
ance. One midnight he waited in an under- 
ground passage by which the young priest 
usually entered. They met face to face— the 
guilt of one confronting the accusation of the 
other. Terror-struck, the priest fell on his 
knees beseeching mercy. His answer was a 

13 


194 Vanity! 

dagger-thrust in his heart. As he fell the girl 
came on the scene, and her wail of agony so 
maddened her father that he turned on her 
and stabbed her also. 

His awful vengeance complete, he put the 
bodies into a sack and dragged them along the 
passage to a vault or cellar sunk into the foun- 
dations and secured by a massive iron trap- 
door. He threw them in, locked the door, 
and returned to his own quarters. Next day 
he took all his gold and valuables and went 
abroad, and for years was never heard of. 
Then an old, decrepit man, bowed and wrinkled 
and feeble, came back to end his days at 

H . He was dying, but he would have no 

priest to shrive him, no masses said for his 
soul, and with his secret unconfessed he passed 
out of the life his sin had cursed. “ And,” 
continued Lady Per., dramatically, “ once in 
every year, on the night of the anniversary of 
that time, it is said he comes back and enacts 
it again. And wo be to the man or woman 
who sees that gruesome sight, for it betokens 
death within the year. Again does that ghostly 
figure glide down the lonely passage, again 
does that wail of agony rend the silence, and 
again does the noise of the faltering footsteps 
and dragging bodies echo once more over the 
stones, until all the horror culminates in the 
clang of that rusty door.” 


Vanity! 195 

We all drew our breaths sharp, and an in- 
voluntary shudder ran through the circle of 
listeners. 

“ But is it really true ? Has any one seen 
it ? Does it still happen ? ” fell the queries. 

“ Yes,” said Lady Per., gravely. “ It still 
happens, and it has been seen. We have had 
a door put at the end of the passage and the 
servants are strictly forbidden ever to go there. 
But one cook I had, who knew nothing of the 
legend, took it into her head to explore the 
place while we were away. I don’t know how 
she got the key, or whether she found one to 
fit the lock, but certainly she went out of her 
mind with terror. She left the door open and 
went to bed . . . then remembered it and 
came down to shut it at midnight. It must 
have been the anniversary. Shrieks that 
reached the servant’s quarters and a frenzied 
lunatic found crouched at the entrance to the 
passage. I was telegraphed for, and the end 
was the poor thing had to go to an asylum— 
she died there.” 

“ It’s awfully gruesome,” said Mrs. Jackey, 
with an effective shudder that set the jewels 
and sequins of her gown into glittering turmoil. 

“ But when is the anniversary ? You haven’t 
told us.” 

“ I don’t intend to. I’d rather not be re- 
sponsible for any more lunatics.” 


196 Vanity! 

“ But, of course, it isn’t true,” said Wildash. 
“ There’s no evidence she saw anything. She 
might have been an hysterical, nervous woman 
and—” 

“ That’s just it. She wasn’t. The most 
matter-of-fact, prosaic person. Oh, no I it 
was no case of fancying. I’m sure. But that’s 
enough of ghosts. Let’s vote the prize and 
have some baccarat to wind up the evening. 
We’re all in the doldrums, I do declare.” 

“ The prize is yours, Pussy, in my opinion,” 
said Mrs. lackey. “Yours for absolute realism. 
It had the genuine old moated grange and 
secret chamber horrors about it. I declare I 
shall feel quite nervous going to bed. 

“Well, it’s past midnight, so there’s no fear 
of the ghost to-night,” exclaimed Captain Cal- 
houn. 

There was a sigh of relief from several of 
the women, and even the men turned to the 
green board with alacrity. 

I did not play, but sat out with Josey Peck 
and one or two of the house party. At last I 
slipped away, tired and somewhat bored. 

A bright fire burned in my room. The 
curtains were drawn, and everything was 
luxurious and comfortable. A wide, deeply- 
padded armchair stood near the fireplace, 
and, after exchanging my evening dress for a 
quilted dressing-gown, I took a book and set- 


Vanity! 197 

tied myself down for half an hour’s quiet read. 
Whether it was the effect of the warmth, or 
the pleasant sense of fatigue and quiet com- 
bined, I hardly know, but my eyes closed and 
I fell into a deep sleep. 

I woke with a start. The candles had burnt 
very low. The fire was only a mass of dull 
red embers. I was chilled and uncomfortable, 
and rose with the intention of going to bed. 
As I stood before the glass I noted that a cer- 
tain diamond-hilted dagger I had worn in my 
hair was no longer there. I searched the 
chair, the rug, the dressing-table. All the 
places where it might have fallen — in vain. 
Nowhere could I find it. 

I remember I had not removed it when I 
changed my dress. I valued it very highly, 
and its loss disturbed me so effectually that I 
lost all inclination to sleep. I remembered 
the divan on which I had been seated during 
the story-telling. Perhaps it had dropped out 
among the cushions. I considered the proba- 
bility of finding it in the morning and won- 
dered whether to risk a servant’s honesty or 
go down myself now and search. 

It was nearly three o’clock. I opened the 
door and looked out. The house was quiet, 
the lights were extinguished, all save one or 
two lamps in dark corridors which were left 
lighting all night. I took up my candle and 


iqS Vanity! 

went softly down the stairs. I knew the exact 
spot where I had been sitting and, leaving my 
candlestick on one of the tables, I moved 
swiftly forward and commenced my search. 

I moved the top cushion and there, fallen 
between it and the back of the lounge, glittered 
my dagger. With a cry of delight I seized it. 
But the cry was strangled at its birth. I heard 
beyond me in the dining-room a strange 
muffled noise. It was as if some one was 
dragging a heavy weight along the floor. 

My heart stood still . . . my limbs seemed 
frozen with terror. The story of the ghost 
rushed back to my memory and I was power- 
less to move or cry. 

Seconds, moments passed, and still that 
frozen horror chained me. All will and energy 
seemed centered in my power of hearing which, 
grown abnormally acute, intensified those 
muffled sounds by force of terror. 

It seemed to me they came nearer. They 
approached the door which was only screened 
from the hall by a heavy velvet portiere. On 
that portiere my eyes rested with an appalling 
dread of what any moment might rey eal. There 
was silence, then the faint click of a turning 
handle, the curtain rustled, moved, divided. 
Through its folds a face peered. A faint 
scream burst from my lips. A light flashed 
over me, the light of a lantern, as suddenly it 


199 


Vanity! 

was darkened. In two steps the man who 
held it was at my side. His hand gripped my 
arm. 

“ If you move or cry, I’ll kill you,’’ he 
hissed. “But you won’t. You know me, 
don’t you ?” 

I shuddered, and my senses reeled. Know 
him . . . curse and bane of my life. Thief^ 
renegade, criminal 1 The man I had last seen 
in a prisoner’s dock sentenced to fifteen years’ 
penal servitude. . . . My husband 1 


200 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER XX. 

NOTES FROM MY DIARY. 

Dec, 2Tth . — I feel a hundred years older 
than when I started for Thornhill Manor. 

I returned this morning to Bond Street. All 
is well there, but I myself feel a perfect wreck. 
I have gone through twenty-four hours of in- 
conceivable torture. I have become “ an ac- 
cessory ” to a burglary, and the burglar is my 
husband— the man who was the evil genius of 
my youth, who married me under false pre- 
tenses, and left me bankrupt in health, wealth 
and happiness. 

He had broken every moral law and not a 
few of his country’s, and at last found himself 
faced by a deserved penalty. I breathed freely 
when I knew I was free from him. The years 
drifted by. Then I heard he had been shot 
while trying to effect his escape. I began life 
anew, fired by hope and unquenched energies. 
I had succeeded, as these pages show. I was 
growing contented — almost happy. Suddenly 
I found myself confronted by this specter of 
my past. The gruesome horrors of his life 


> Vanity! 201 

now linked my own to equal horror. I had 
had to hear of his escape from prison. To 
listen to the oaths and curses of a hardened 
jail-bird, who feared nought, and cared for no 
one. ... To connive at his escape from 
Thornhill Manor, to become in a measure his 
accomplice, and, at the very turning point of 
my own career, to know myself at the mercy 
of a merciless scoundrel. My chances and 
hopes of an uncontrolled future seemed to 
vanish into thin air. The breath of such a 
scandal on my business would scare every 
customer away. My position and reputation 
lay at his mercy now, and he would soon dis- 
cover the fact. 

Oh 1 that night of horror. . . . Shall I ever 
forget it ! I marvel my hair is not snow-white 
when I think of what I endured. 

Then to come down in the morning and face 
the turmoil and confusion of a discovered 
burglary 1 To hear summonses issued for 
local police, to form one of the gossiping, af- 
frightened, speculating crowd of men and wo- 
men, who discussed probabilities and theories, 
and gave idiotic advice, and rushed about see- 
ing that their own jewels were safe, and drove 
poor Lady Per. nearly wild by hysterics and 
confusion. 

Fortunately, in the general confusion, my 
own perturbation escaped notice, but oh ! how 


202 


Vanity! 

thankful I was when I found myself back in 
London, and able to give vent to my feelings in 
the privacy of my own dwelling. 

Night, and all is quiet, and Babette has at- 
tended to my comforts as only a faithful servant 
can. Night — and I sit here alone to hold coun- 
sel with myself and wonder what I had best do. 

I seem separated by 5 ^ears from that frivo- 
lous, fashion-sated crowd of yesterday. I seem 
separated by more than years from the hope- 
ful enthusiast whom that sign below repre- 
sented but two short years ago. Poor Frou- 
Frou 1 I sigh. How long will her glory last 
now ? I think of divorce. 

But divorce means the exposure of a horri- 
ble scandal ; divorce will show up the facts of 
this burglary and prove that I aided a crim- 
inal’s escape. Divorce will ruin my business 
for me, and I have no desire to drop into a 
second-rate modiste after the brilliant “ splash ” 
of this last year. 

My head aches. My brain is racked. I see 
the whole fabric of my hopes about to fall to 
the ground. My courage breaks down, and I 
abandon myself to despair. The tears well up 
and flow over. 

The door suddenly opened. Babette an- 
nounced— “ Mr. Wildash.” 


Vanity! 203 

That was two hours ago. I take up my pen 
once more to complete this entry. 

I lifted a tear-stained face from the page of 
my recent confessions and looked at my part- 
ner in a sort of hopeless bewilderment. 

“ Whatever is the matter ? ” he asked anx- 
iously. “ Nothing wrong since you left ? ” 

“ Everything is wrong/’ I said miserably. 
. . . “ Not with the business as yet, but that 
will come. I — I shall have to give it up.” 

“ Give it up 1 ” he echoed. “ What on 
earth do you mean ? ” 

I tried to stay the flow of tears. My plight 
was so desperate that I had need of wiser 
counsel than my own. With the courage of 
despair I told him at last my whole story. 

Silently he listened. Silently, but with a 
deepening gravity of expression — a hurried 
breath as I came to the night of the burglary. 

“ My God 1 to think of it. . . . You ex- 
posed to such peril. . . . Why didn’t you call 
out ? Some one might have heard.” 

“He held a revolver to my head. He swore 
he’d shoot me if I moved or spoke. I had to 
bolt the door and windows after him ... to 
help him hand out things to his accomplice.” 

“ There were two, then r ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You poor soul ! What a business I Still 
you needn’t be so frightened. They can’t 


204 Vanity! 

hurt you without hurting themselves. And as 
for that brute. . . . Why on earth didn’t you 
get a divorce as soon as he was convicted ? ” 

“ I had no money. It is an expensive pro- 
ceeding and most of his — escapades were in 
Paris or America. They were not easy to 
prove.” 

He paced the room to and fro ; his brow 
knit, his face pale and anxious. 

“ He can’t interfere with you here^ you 
know,” he said presently. “You can takeout 
a protection order. You can refuse to admit 
him. The law doesn’t allow a renegade hus- 
band to claim his wife’s money any longer.” 

“ But he could make a disturbance . . . 
create a scandal. He is capable of anything.” 

“ Does he know of this business ?” 

“ Yes. He found it out — goodness knows 
how I” 

“ You could put the police on his track.” 

“ It would seem so horrible to do that. He 
told me something of what his life had been 
in prison — a life that makes men criminals, 
and criminals devils, if ever they taste freedom 
again ! ” 

“ I can believe that. I know something of 
state prisons in France and in Ireland. Well, 
my dear, something has got to be done. It 
must. I can’t have you bullied and terrified 
like this. There’s too much at stake now. 


Vanity! 205 

Besides, I’m . . . I’m too fond of you to let 
your life lie at the mercy of such a brute.” 

I looked up — startled and surprised. His 
eyes met mine, and by some uncontrollable 
impulse I rose to my feet. His arms went 
round me. Very gently he drew me into that 
strong and tender embrace, and my head fell 
on his shoulder. The strength, the protec- 
tion, the peace of it all swept over me like a 
flood. The checked tears streamed from my 
eyes, and he just let me cry there, as a wearied 
and overwrought child might have cried in 
safe and sheltering arms. 

He has gone, and, worn and spent by emo- 
tions, I try to collect my scattered energies 
once more. 

I was confronted by a new difficulty. My 
love for Harry and his for me. 

Suddenly the truth has flashed on us both. 
We are more than friends. We have drifted 
unconsciously into deeper depths of feeling 
than we had supposed possible. The shock 
and surprise once over, a douche of common 
sense brought me back to myself. Into what 
new danger and trouble had I allowed myself 
to drift ? I am not free. I cannot marry 
him. . . . 

There lie the facts in the proverbial nut- 
shell ; and I say them over and over again to 


2 o 6 Vanity! 

the rhythmic throb of aching temples and 
aching heart. 

My hatred of the man who has wronged 
me increases the more I think of him. So 
bitter, so fierce, so desperate do I grow in 
course of self-communing that I almost feel it 
is in me to give him up to justice. A line 
to a magistrate, a hint of his whereabouts, 
and the law would again hold him safe and 
sound. The fact of his escape would add 
fresh penalties, and entail a yet more severe 
sentence and I ... I should be free of this 
hourly dread. 

But even as I think of possible relief I 
know it isn’t in me to gain it by such a mean 
trick. The little he had told me of the hor- 
rors of prison life — the change it had already 
wrought in what had once meant a “ gentle- 
man ” — all stood in array before me, and sapped 
both strength and courage. I saw him as he 
had been when I first knew him — handsome, 
light-hearted, debonair ; and reckless, it is true, 
and with a record, even then, that would not 
bear close scrutiny, but still, what a contrast to 
the evil-looking, hunted reprobate who had de- 
scended so terribly low in the social scale as 
to break into houses and steal silver. 

I shuddered and sprang to my feet in a sort 
of desperation. I was fast in a net. There 
seemed no way of escape. Harry could not 


Vanity! 207 

help me, and his love was but an added dan- 
ger. The thought of it maddened me. I had 
not realized what he had become till that mo- 
ment when I rested in his arms, and recog- 
nized something of the strength and passion 
of his feelings by the response of my own. I 
knew not only how much I loved him, but 
how jealous I had been of other women, and 
his too evident attraction for them. And yet 
I must forego my triumph, and my love both, 
by reason of this sorry trick of fate. 

To-morrow I must begin work. To-morrow 
I must interview customers, attend to orders, 
see to the hundred and one details of my busi- 
ness. To-morrow I must see Harry under 
these altered circumstances . . . to-morrow, 
and many succeeding to-morrows, would make 
my path thorny with difficulties. I should 
have to battle with the weakness of my own 
heart, the jealousy of others, the unsatisfactory 
position I held with regard to the man I loved. 
Should I ever find strength for such duties and 
such dangers ? 

No wonder I feel worn out ! The face that 
looks back at me from the mirror is a very dif- 
ferent one to the radiant vision that smiled 
farewell on the season’s worries ere departing 
for Thornhill Manor. 

What a difference a few days can make in 
life ! 


2o8 


Vanity! 

I have never been happy, really happy, in 
all the previous days of that life. Not even in 
the brief delirium of my love dream. And now 
Fate won’t allow me to be it, when I might. 
It is cruelly hard. No wonder I wax rebel- 
lious. Wildash is more to me than anything 
or any one in the whole wide world, and I can- 
not marry him. I know what women, less 
scrupulous^ would do. I know what many a 
society woman, with far less excuse than I 
have, //as done, and will do again. But Hove 
him, and love that cannot hold a man to his 
highest and best is not the love that keeps 
him constant. ... So I drag tired limbs and 
aching heart to bed, and shed such tears as I 
have never shed before, even when life looked 
at me with its most hopeless aspect. 


Vanity! 


209 


CHAPTER XXL 

There are certain phases of life that serve 
to demoralize one— mentally. We grow tired 
of making a stand against troubles, tired of 
battling against the forces of Fate. We throw 
down our arms in the face of the jade Mis- 
fortune and bid her do her worst, and we will 
do the same. 

In such a mood as this I woke and reviewed 
the events of the past two days. 

There seemed nothing to hope for, nothing 
to encourage me in that struggle to “ keep 
straight ” which, in face of many difficulties 
and temptations, I had hitherto done. I 
smiled grimly as I thought of my high-bred 
sisterhood and their escapades, of all the reve- 
lations made to and learnt by me in my ap- 
prenticeship to Fashion. I pictured Lady 
Farringdon, or Mrs. lackey Beauchamp, in 
similar plight, with an undesirable husband 
and a passionate adoring lover, and wondered 
how they would meet the emergency. . . . 

In a mood of cold, hard doggedness I 
dressed and had breakfast, and went into the 
14 


210 


Vanity! 

workroom where the usual petty squabbles 
met and annoyed me. I settled them with a 
sharpness and temper so unusual that the girls 
looked astonished. I was far too desperate to 
care for them or their “ tantrums” — indeed al- 
most desperate enough to break up the whole 
establishment, and seek fresh fields and pas- 
tures new in safe and humble obscurity. Al- 
most. . . . Not quite, I suppose, for when 
Wildash walked in, bright, cheery, smiling, 
all my ill-humor vanished. 

“ You look pale and worried,’’ he said. “ I 
suppose you had no sleep and from mere vex- 
ing that dear little head with the ‘ whys and 
wherefores ’ of the present situation. You 
mustn’t do it, sweetheart. We are going to 
have a ‘ booming season.’ All else must be 
sacrificed— temporarily. Fll hit upon some 
way to get rid of your incubus if you’ll only 
trust me. Anything can be done in this world 
with the sinews of war. Our business is to 
get those sinews. Here’s the order of cam- 
paign. I don’t fancy that man will molest' 
you. I’ll face him with the terrors of the law. 
He can’t bully me. I’ll soon let him know 
that. And you may be sure he’ll be in a mor- 
tal funk lest he is discovered and taken back 
to prison. He must see that you’re not afraid 
of anything he can do or say. That is of par- 
amount importance. For the rest you must 


2II 


Vanity! 

set about getting a divorce — very quietly. It 
will be expensive, but we can make money 
hand over hand now. Of course we’ll have 
to be very careful lest our own little secret 
leaks out, as that would spoil your case. So 
I must only be seen here at business hours. 
We’ll have to do our utmost to keep the affair 
out of the papers, but reporters aren’t above 
a touch of ‘ palm-oil,’ and I know an awfully 
good chap — a barrister — who I am sure would 
help us, and take up the case. . . . Come, 
aren’t the clouds clearing off ? Let me see 
you smile . . . that’s better. I can’t recog- 
nize you as the weeping Niobe of last night 
. . . and I’m not going to let you be wor- 
ried — so there. You’re my property now, and 
I mean to look after you.” 

What could I say ? His gaiety was irresist- 
ible. My fears vanished before that radiant 
sunshine as rain clouds before the sun itself. 
The heavy load of care and anxiety rolled off 
my shoulders. I smiled back into his eyes 
and . . . went boldly forth to meet Mrs. 
Aurelius B. Peck. 

That good lady was infinitely more humble 
than on the occasion of her first visit. She 
looked nervously around as if to assure herself 
that Harry was not lurking about, and sug- 
gested my making her a couple of new eve- 


212 


Vanity! 

ning gowns, leaving style and color and ma- 
terial to my judgment. 

Those matters settled, I wondered why she 
still lingered. She seemed to have something 
on her mind. 

At last it came out. 

“ My daughter tells me,” she said, “ that you 
were at Lady Persiflage’s ; when you were 
there may I . . . would you, I mean was Mr. 
Wildash there also ? She never said.” 

I felt myself color slightly. “Yes ... he 
was there,” I answered. “ He went down to 
superintend the theatricals.” 

She looked much disturbed. “ I — I hope — 
I trust Josephine was careful and — and dis- 
creet,” she stammered. “ You know, Mrs. 
Costello, people will talk and . . . she being 
an heiress and all that— naturally attracts more 
notice than ordinary young ladies.” 

I laughed. “ Oh ! she was most discreet,” 
I replied. “ Infinitely more so than when at 
Homburg.” 

“ Homburg ? ” She looked bewildered. 

“Yes . . . those early morning expeditions, 
biking, or riding. Surely you knew ? ” 

“ No — I never heard anything of it,” she 
gasped. “ Lord sakes 1 What was the girl 
thinking of . . . and the Prince there and 
all.” 

I thought to myself that H. R. H. was not 


Vanity! 213 

likely to have bestowed much attention on the 
Pecks, but I did not say so. 

“ Is there anything more I can do for you ? 

I asked, shutting up my note-book, where I 
had taken down her instructions. “ You will 
excuse my saying my time is very much oc- 
cupied just now.” 

She hesitated . . . looked at me helplessly 
and then blurted out her confession. 

“ Oh 1 Mrs. Costello, it isn’t as if you weren’t 
a lady and all that, and though you’re not a 
mother, as far as I know, still you will under- 
stand my feelin’s. I know it’s dreadfully old- 
fashioned and bad form and all that to have 
any, but still I did so want her to make a grand 
marriage, and if she gets talked about with 
your partner, you know, why, it’ll jiist ruin her 
chances. And she’s that pig-headed it’s no 
manner o’ use my speakin’.” 

There were tears in her eyes. She sank into 
a chair, her big body palpitating with agitation. 

“ She only laughs at me,” she went on. 
“ Says she’ll have her fling at any cost. I’ve 
begged her to take Lord Soppington. He’s 
just mad about her. But she’s no savoy faire, 
as they say.” 

“ Still, I don’t see what I can do,” I inter- 
rupted. 

“ You could keep Mr. Wildash out of her 
way, couldn’t you ? ” she said. 


214 Vanity! 

“ Certainly not. Mr. Wildash is no child 
in leading-strings to be led hither and 
thither,” I answered haughtily. 

It cost me a pang to think of this rich 
young American ready to throw herself and 
her dollars into the arms of the man I loved 
and could not marry. 

Mrs. Peck looked at me helplessly. 

“Then she’ll just go on her own way,” she 
lamented. “ And all my hopes and ambitions 
count for nothing.” 

“ If you have no influence over your daugh- 
ter, you cannot expect a stranger to possess 
any.” 

“ She’s mighty fond of you, I know,” la- 
mented the poor woman. “ Says you’re the 
truest lady of the lot. And then, you see, he 
may be a baronet some day,” she went on, 
irrelevantly. “ He’s such a perfect gentleman 
too . . . and so good-looking.” 

I began to lose patience. “ It may be just 
possible,” I said, “that Mr. Wildash has no 
serious thought of your daughter. Certainly, 
he is no fortune hunter, and his mind is en- 
tirely engrossed by this business. His ambi- 
tions lie in that line.” 

“ Oh 1 ” she said doubtfully, “if I was only 
quite sure of that 1 You see her father’s 
one of the richest men in America, and he 
could buy a title here any day, and we’d 


Vanity! 215 

both set our hearts on seein’ Josephine a 
duchess.” 

“ She seemed to hold the same views when 
I talked with her down at Thornhill Manor,” 
I said dryly. 

Mrs. Peck brightened visibly. “You don’t 
say 1 Wal, that’s good news. She can’t have 
changed ’em so quick. Perhaps she only 
goes on to rile me. But now that Pve told 
you my trouble, Mrs. Costello, won’t you try 
and see her by herself, when she comes here ? 
If Mr. Wildash kept out of the way for a time 
she might really take Lord Soppington. It’s 
a splendid chance. The old duke can’t live 
much longer, they say. I’d die happy to see 
a tiara on her head, and strawberry leaves on 
her carriage panels, and hear ’er called ‘ Your 
Grace.’ ” 

She rose, flushed and eager. I felt sorry 
for her, and for once forgot her vulgarity and 
self-importance in the new light of her 
motherly anxiety. 

“ If you take my advice,” I said gently, 
“ you will not urge or worry your daughter on 
this matter. She has plenty of common sense, 
and knows the advantages of rank and position 
as well as you do. Her admiration for Mr. 
Wildash is only a girl’s freak. She will soon 
forget it. But if you appear to make it im- 
portant, she may eventually believe it is so. 


2 i 6 Vanity! 

You have plenty of time before the season. 
Take her to country houses where she may 
meet Lord Soppington. Let her see women, 
young and as pretty as herself, playing the 
role of hostess, invested with married impor- 
tance. She will form her own conclusions. 
Such surroundings are more influential than a 
London ballroom. It might occur to her that 
to appear at the next Drawing-room the 
fiancee of the future Duke of Weybridge, the 
possessor of the famous Weybridge diamonds, 
is well worth the sacrifice of a fancy. Lm 
sure it’s not more serious— yet.” 

“Wal, I’m very grateful to you,” said the 
poor woman, squeezing my hands in her huge, 
tightly-gloved palms. “ Very — and I’ll take 
your advice.” 

“ Let me know the result,” I said, releasing 
my aching fingers. “And if you choose to 
suggest that Valerie or Kate Reilly are in- 
finitely better establishments for her to patron- 
ize, I’ll not be offended.” 

“ Now I call that real magnanimous of you,” 
she exclaimed. “All the same I don’t believe 
she’d go to any one else for her gowns now. 
You’ve hit her style exactly. And her figure 
don’t look the same — it’s just elegant 1 But 
there. I’m keeping you, I see. I’ll be off. 
You’ve taken a load off my mind, I do declare. 
Good-by again.” 


Vanity! 217 

She left and I stood there absently turning 
over the leaves of the last Wiener , but 

seeing nothing of the beauties or vagaries 
Dame Mode had inspired in its pages. There 
was a curious dull ache in my heart, and with 
it came a certain feeling of distrust, born of 
jealousy. It was not unnatural considering 
the uncertainty of my position. Besides, I 
still feared that shadow from my hateful past. 
It was all very well for Harry to combat it and 
pretend there was no need for uneasiness, but 
he did not know the absolute brutality of the 
man who was still my husband. 

And in his present desperate condition he 
would not stick at trifles. By what means he 
had discovered me under my assumed name 
I could not imagine, but once having done so, 
I knew I should never feel free from intrusion 
or demand on his part. He hated me, I 
knew— hated me all the more because I was 
prosperous and independent. He would not 
lightly forego some sort of revenge, and 
to buy his silence would be a costly pro- 
ceeding. 

Before I reached any further stage of fore- 
boding the door opened to admit Lady Far- 
ringdon. My first glance at her face showed 
me she was nervous and agitated. I won- 
dered what had happened. She fidgeted 
about, turning over stuffs and gazing absently 


2 t 8 Vanity! 

at trimmings. I had never seen her in so 
strange a mood before. 

I grew tired of suggesting at last. “ I really 
don’t think you want a gown at all,” I said 
bluntly. 

She looked at me and then closed the fashion 
book whose leaves she had been turning. “ I 
don’t,” she said. “ I came here because I . . . 
well. I’d better be frank with you, Mrs. Costello 
. . . I want you to help me — I’m in a— scrape. 
I don’t know what to do, and I’ve come to ask 
you to lend me your room this evening. I 
want to — see a friend here. You can guess 
what I mean. I don’t know any other place 
or whom to trust. I’ve reason to suspect I’m 
watched. I thought of you. ... I know 
you’re awfully kind-hearted, and I’ll pay any- 
thing if you’ll only do what I want.” 

I looked at her in astonishment. “ I would 
do a great deal for you. Lady Farringdon,” I 
said. “ But I do not wish to be mixed up 
with any scandal. I suppose it is Captain 
Calhoun you wish to meet here ? ” 

“ What I even you know,” she exclaimed. 

“ It would be somewhat surprising if I did 
not. You forget how often I have seen you 
together.” 

“ I assure you,” she said, “ there’s been 
nothing wrong in the very least. Only now 
my husband has turned nasty, and forbidden 


219 


' Vanity! 

me to ask Frank to the house. It’s too ridic- 
ulous I But, of course, I don’t want any scan- 
dal. And he’s going away — abroad somewhere, 
and I must see him . . . must say good-by, 
and I know no one I could trust except you. 
. . . Oh 1 don’t say no. . . . Think, if you 
cared very much for any one . . . and might 
never see him again—” 

I thought of Wildash and softened. After 
all it couldn’t hurt me if she appointed to meet 
Calhoun here. It would be the last time . . . 
on that I was determined. 

“I suppose,” I said, “ you have considered 
the risk. Certainly, if you think you are 
watched, it is risk.” 

“We shall not arrive or go away together,” 
she said. “ I know who is the spy, and I can 
throw him off the scent. Then you’ll do it ? ” 

“ I shall be out between five and six this 
evening,” I said. “You may call and wait for 
me — here. If a friend is with you that is not 
unusual. Captain Calhoun has called on me 
once or twice about his sister’s trousseau. It 
will be supposed he is waiting to see me.” 

“ You are an angel ! ” she cried eagerly. 

I smiled. “ Not a good one, I’m afraid.” 


220 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Five o’clock found me tcte-a-tete with Di 
Abercroft. 

I had not seen her since my departure for 
Thornhill Manor, and I longed to tell her all 
that had happened. She was free to attend 
to me and my confidences, and gave strict 
orders she was not to be disturbed for half an 
hour. 

“ And how did the theatricals go off ? ” she in- 
quired, handing me tea delicious enough for a 
duchess’s boudoir. Di had the merchandise 
of many countries at her disposal, so numerous 
were her friends. 

“ Capitally, but it is not of them I have come 
to talk to you,” I said. “ I am in a dreadful 
dilemma, my dear ... I don’t know what to 
do.” 

And I told her of the night of the burglary, 
and the horrors of that discovery. 

She turned pale. She had long known of 
that black shadow on my life. She had sym- 
pathized with me, and rejoiced at my freedom 
and advised and helped me to independence. 


Vanity! 221 

“ Oh ! my poor child 1 ” she cried. “What 
an awful thing. . . . Whatever will you do ! ” 

“ And that’s not all,” I continued. “ I have 
learnt ... I mean Harry Wildash is in love 
with me.” 

“ I expected that” she said quietly. “ I 
knew where you were both drifting. You are 
equally in love with him ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

She put down her cup and looked steadily 
at me. I felt myself change color. 

“You are not children— you recognize the 
danger ? ” 

“ Danger 1 ” I echoed. “ I recognize the 
complications, if that’s what you mean. It is 
rather — hard — to have gone through all that 
suffering for nothing.” 

“ Yes, and you did suffer. How hard life is 
on women 1 ” 

“ Recognizing the fact does not alter, or 
help it,” I said bitterly. 

“Tell me what Wildash proposes ? ” 

“ A divorce. . . . He thinks it can be man- 
aged quietly and kept out of the papers. I 
don’t.” 

“ No, and it would nearly ruin you.” 

“ Of course. People wouldn’t go to a dress- 
maker who had a convict husband. Besides, 
he made me help him in that burglary at 
Thornhill Manor. Fancy if that came out ! ” 


222 


Vanity! 

“ Good heavens, child 1 How could you 
have been so foolish ! ” 

“ My life was at stake. And I was terrified out 
of my wits. I didn’t realize what I was doing.” 

“ Are you afraid of his blackmailing you ? ” 

“ Yes. Though Harry makes light of it. 
But he doesn’t know the sort of man Crosse is.” 

“There’s another point to consider. In 
order to get a divorce you must have a clean 
record. It’s all very well to he straight, but 
you must have seemed so. Now, the fact of 
taking Wildash into partnership — your constant 
companionship — even your going down to that 
country house together, would all tell against 
you. Then look how many years you have let 
pass without trying to free yourself.” 

“ But, remember, I heard he had been shot 
trying to escape. It appears he changed 
clothes with another man. Naturally they 
looked at the number. I was told Convict 33 
was dead. I believed it. There the author- 
ities are to blame — in a manner.” 

“ But didn’t you go to the prison . . . verify 
the report ? ” 

“ No. I was at Bruges, you know, teaching 
in that school. I was so thankful to hear of 
his death I thought of nothing but my free- 
dom. Then I met Abrahams, and you know 
he promised to finance this business and you 
advised it . . . and there I am.” 


223 


Vanity! 

“ It’s a serious state of affairs, Kate." 

“ My dear Di, what’s the use of telling me 
what I know ? I came to ask for your advice. 
I am perfectly well aware of my own position." 

“ Don’t get cross, darling. I am just puz- 
zling my brains to think of something and, 
upon my word, I think you’d better be passive. 
Let Crosse make the first move. Then you 
can form your own plan of action. You see 
he can’t hurt you without hurting himself." 

“ That is what Harry says." 

“ Well, as you can’t marry Harry, you must 
either wait for release, or run the risk of divorce- 
court revelations.’’ 

“ Those hateful courts 1 ’’ I muttered. “ It 
isn’t as if they contented themselves with the 
point at issue ; they peer and pry into every 
corner of one’s life, rake up all the past, scan- 
dalize you in every possible way and then hold 
the Queen’s Proctor over your head for six 
months after you get your decree." 

“ True, my dear. The law is always on the 
man’s side in everything. No wonder, con- 
sidering men made it. Of course there’s an- 
other way open to you.” 

She looked at me keenly, and I read her 
meaning. 

“ No," I said coldly. “ I’m not that sort, Di. 
I should hate him and despise myself." 

“ Then, my dear Kate, unless you are very 


2 24 Vanity! 

sure of yourself and of him, it is unwise to see 
too much of each other. You’ll never be able 
to limit yourselves to business hours, and con- 
fidences. There’ll be a scandal, and if you 
can’t marry him — ” 

She shrugged her shoulders and poured out 
some more tea. 

“ Di,” I said, “ did you ever love any man ? ” 

“ Did I— not ? It is that makes me so bitter.” 

“ Was he bad — to you ?” 

“ He was bad to every one. He couldn’t 
help it. I left him. But I didn’t escape 
persecution. I tried everything to free my- 
self. ... I wanted him to divorce me, and 
he wouldn’t.” 

“ But— at last ? ” 

“ Oh ! he got his head broken in some 
drunken brawl. Was taken to a hospital — and 
died. There was no doubt about that. . . . 
It was horrible. I had to identify him in the 
mortuary. Ugh ! . . . I have had my fill of 
horrors, too, Kate.” 

My eyes filled. “ You never told me this 
before.” 

“ Why should I ? Unnecessary confidences 
only bore one’s friends. I tell you now, be- 
cause we’ve both suffered at the hands of 
blackguards. And the suffering has left its 
mark. I ... I don’t want to appear unsym- 
pathetic, Kate, but really, after such an expe- 


Vanity! 225 

rience of men, I would advise you to follow my 
own example. Never let a man be of any real 
importance in your life. Make use of him, 
but never become his slave. . . . That is what 
love makes you. I don’t care what a man 
is, good, bad, or indifferent, once he knows a 
woman loves him, he is her tyrant and master. 
He may show it, or conceal it, but his nature 
makes him that— a nature that is the legacy of 
his primeval forefathers. Civilization glosses 
it over, it cannot stamp it out. There has al- 
ways been a struggle for supremacy between 
the sexes — there always will be. It is inevi- 
table. Study children and you will see the boy 
tyrannizes over the girl. It is emblematic of 
what the future will be. She has her brief 
spell of revenge when passion makes him dumb 
and foolish and lays him at her feet, but it is 
brief. If she yields, her sovereignty is lost. 
She is only to him the exponent of sex once 
more. He owes it to himself to lord it over 
her. And according to the best, or the worst, 
that is in him, does she feel the whip, or ac- 
knowledge the curb. Oh 1 Love is a false 
thing, Kate — a cruel thing — and self-decep- 
tive 1 ” 

“ It looks so beautiful,” I sighed. “And I 
am so tired and so lonely, Di, it seems hard to 
deny myself one little bit of happiness ... at 
last.” 


226 Vanity! 

“ I suppose it does. My panacea for senti- 
ment or loneliness is simply work. Stamp out 
romance, don’t brood, don’t even thinks except 
about your customers and their whims. I find 
them engrossing enough, I assure you.” 

She rose. The half-hour was up. The 
work-room demanded us both. I thought of 
Lady Farringdon and her lover, and my heart 
ached with a sort of dull wonder why women 
couldn’t keep themselves free from this curse 
of peace, this mirage of sentiment ? 

I almost hated Wildash at that moment, for 
again I recognized the tyranny of fate, and held 
the knotted strands of complication. Peace of 
mind — even hope fled far away. 

I kissed Di and bade her farewell, and went 
home through the wet and gloomy streets as 
miserable a woman as they held that night. 


“ Lady and gentleman been waiting for you, 
madame,” announced the page, as I opened 
the door with my latch-key. “ Lady has left 
— said she’d call to-morrow. Gent’s up-stairs 
still.” 

I wondered. However, I walked into my 
sitting-room and saw Captain Calhoun. He 
looked moody and disturbed. 

“ How d’ye do, Mrs. Costello. I heard you’d 
be in at six, so I waited because , . 


Vanity! 227 

He paused. I looked inquiry and saw his 
face flush and a certain embarrassment in his 
eyes. 

“ Because I had something to say to you/^ 
he went on. 

I laughed. “ It must be very important to 
occupy your thoughts after the interview that 
is just over.” 

“Oh — that!'' his brow darkened. “Well, 
of course, Cissie never could keep her business 
to herself. She’s told you Fm going away . . . 
going to South Africa, next week.” 

“Yes,” I said briefly. 

“ It’s rather sudden, and she . . . we, I 
mean, have been a bit imprudent. At least, 
her husband chooses to think so. And she 
gave herself away — rather — when the news 
came — Poor Cissie I However, it’s best as it 
is. I hope the . . . the unpleasantness will 

blow over. So d d absurd of old Sir John 

to make a row now. But I’ve advised her to 
go down to the country and keep quiet awhile, 
and play up to the old boy’s domestic ideas. 
There’s no use having a scandal for nothing.” 

“ Nothing— meaning of course a woman’s 
reputation. We’ll say nothing about her feel- 
ings.” 

He looked at me, and bit his long mustache 
somewhat nervously. “ Feelings ? My dear 
Mrs. Costello, you surely don’t suppose a 


228 Vanity! 

woman of the world allows them to stand in 
the way of ... of more important things.’’ 

“ Not often, I suppose. But when she does 
she is more ready to make sacrifices than the 
man who has placed her in a false position.” 

“ You surely don’t fancy that Lady Farring- 
don— ” 

“ Has any feelings to sacrifice ? That is for 
you to decide. The world has not been silent, 
Captain Calhoun. And I have heard a great 
deal from independent sources that would sur- 
prise you perhaps.” 

“ D d scandalmongers 1 ” he muttered. 

“ That may be. But while people live in 
society’s glass houses they cannot avoid its 
stones.” 

“ The hard part of it all is,” he began, then 
broke off, and commenced to pace to and fro. 
“ It will make matters worse if I tell you . . . 
but there. I’ll get it off my conscience. I’m 
pretty sure we’ll never meet again, and though 
you are so heartless and indifferent, still you 
must have seen that ever since I saw you first 
. . . that Drawing-room day, you remember ? 
Well, there’s never been any other woman in 
the world for me. Every feeling worth any- 
thing is yours. ... I’d give my life for you ! 
As regards the . . . the other affair, I just 
drifted into it as so many men do. You know 
,the world ; you know how these things hap- 


Vanity! 229 

pen. One lets them go on . . . it’s a sort of 
habit. The woman makes use of you and you 
go on letting yourself be made use of until one 
day — something brings you to your senses. It 
was you brought me to mine.” 

I had seated myself by the fire. I watched 
him and listened to him with a vague sense of 
that irony of Fate that of all things in my life 
is the one most sure and hopeless. Cissie 
Farringdon and I — her modiste and uncon- 
scious rival !• Calhoun — and Harry Wildash 
and Josey Peck 1 Why, what a topsy-turvy 
country dance we were all executing at the 
behest of this whimsical goddess. I could 
have laughed aloud, but the misery and ear- 
nestness of that face before me sobered my 
sense of mirth and the irony of the situation. 

The masculine mind is an odd thing. It 
dislikes a display of sentiment, it dislikes being 
talked about, it dislikes — above all— being 
laughed at — especially in matters of the affec- 
tions. Though I had not a particle of senti- 
ment for this man, I yet was conscious that he 
sincerely meant all he said to me. Vaguely I 
pitied him, and pitied poor Lady Farringdon 
more. She had indeed sold her woman’s heri- 
tage for husks. She had loved him unwisely 
but faithfully, and that love was to him — noth- 
ing. 

“Aren’t you evergoingto speak ?” he asked 


230 Vanity! 

at last, wearied, I suppose, of my long si- 
lence. 

I roused myself — then. “ I don’t know what 
you expect me to say. Captain Calhoun,” I an- 
swered. “ But what I do say is that your con- 
fession does not flatter me in the least. With 
the morals and vagaries of society I have noth- 
ing in common, and I am often glad of it. I 
think it is hateful the way all honor and de- 
cency is set at naught. Why can’t men leave 
married women to their lawful possessors, in- 
stead of entering upon these compromising 
friendships ? They are bound to have a dis- 
astrous end. You are weary of 5^our position, 
I have no doubt, but . . . even if I cared for 
you — which happily I don’t — you would only 
exchange one bondage for another. I am no 
more free than Lady Farringdon is, though, 
unlike her, I was not aware of the fact until a 
short time ago.” 

“You are not a widow ?” he gasped. 

“ No. But even if I were I should not care 
for such an easy transfer of affections as you 
propose.” 

He grew very pale. “That is a cruel 
speech,” he said. “ I know whatwomen think 
of apparent inconstancy, but it’s not that with 
me. I never loved Cissie . . . and she knows 
it. I . . . I’ve explained that to you.” 

“ Yes. But the explanation does not speak 


231 


Vanity! 

well for your truth to one or other of us. You 
must have let her believe you cared. Women 
— even in these days of easy morality — do not 
give themselves away for nothing.” 

He stood before me, silent, tugging at his 
long mustache and glancing at my face with 
uneasiness and apprehension. 

“ I’m sorry,” I went on presently, “ that you 
should have told me this. It would have been 
best unsaid. I can only hope, however, that 
affections like your own are elastic enough to 
embrace — even a third or fourth object. You 
may possibly find consolation even in — South 
Africa.” 

I thought I owed him that for the remark I 
had accidentally heard when he had held that 
first tete-a-tete in my rooms with the woman 
he had now thrown over. My price had ap- 
parently been compassed by a case of liqueurs. 
The obligation was repaid. 


232 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Harry had left earlier than usual, so when 
I had dismissed Captain Calhoun I went to 
my own room, got into a loose tea-gown, and 
ordered Babette to bring me some black cof- 
fee by way of soothing my nerves. 

I was irritable and upset and full of vague 
alarm. After a period of comparative peace, 
unpleasant events had followed close upon one 
another with startling rapidity. The tonic of 
Di’s worldly-wise philosophy had not restored 
me to common sense half so readily as Captain 
Calhoun’s declaration. It was utterly unex- 
pected, and, in a sense, humiliating, but I felt 
more sorry for Lady Farringdon than for my- 
self. . . . What she had expected, or gained, 
from that interview I did not know, but the 
results could scarcely have been gratifying. 

I sat there sipping my coffee, gazing mood- 
ily into the bright flames . . . going over old 
memories ; speculating on the events of the 
future. I have had a harder time of it than 
most women. For long I have fought the 
world single - handed, battling against the 


Vanity! 233 

treachery of both men and women. It seems 
hard that just when prosperity holds out more 
than a promise I should again become the 
victim of circumstances. Something of old 
bitterness and hardness returns to me. Even 
Harry suffers by this mood of mine. I tell 
myself nothing can come of our love . . . and 
almost I persuade myself I don’t want any- 
thing to come of it. It is, of course, only a 
temporary fit of ill-humor, but I grow desper- 
ately unhappy, and am not surprised to find 
the tears rolling down my cheeks. 

What a long evening 1 What miserable 
hours I I refused dinner at seven o’clock. I 
am sorry for it now. It is nearly nine and I 
am very hungry. I wish I had asked Harry 
to take me out to supper. I might telegraph, 
but if he were out he would not get it in time. 

I have brooded and thought myself into a 
headache. I have written my diary up to date, 
and read a good many of its past records. 
There seems nothing left to do except go to 
bed. I almost think I will. 

A knock, and Babette entered. 

“ Pardon, madame, a gentleman to see you. 
He is below in the salon.” 

“What name?” I asked. 

“ He do not give me a card. He say it is 


234 


Vanity! 

business of importance connected with ze 
house where madame stayed in ze country.” 

My heart seemed to stand still. Then every 
pulse leaped and throbbed into active life. 
Thornhill Manor . . . the burglary ... all 
rushed to my mind. . . . Heavens I if any- 
thing had been discovered. . . . If I . . . 

I turned away lest Babette should notice 
my agitation. “ Bien — say I will be down in 
a few moments. Stay — give me that tea- 
gown . . . the black one. That will do.” 

I threw it on. A glorified creation of crepe 
de chine and lace and amber ribbons. I was 
trembling horribly. I knew I was too un- 
nerved for any critical emergency. But sus- 
pense would have been even worse. 

I went down-stairs and opened the door. 
There — clothed and in his right mind — stood 
my evil genius — Jasper Crosse. 

I turned faint and sick. Then, as suddenly 
as it had fled, my courage returned — the cour- 
age of desperation. 

I shut the door and came forward. 

“ Why are you here ? ” I said calmly. 

The mocking devil of his old effrontery was 
in his eyes as he met mine. 

“ An unusual question for a wife to put to a 
husband from whom she has been separated 
so many years,” he answered. I am here to 
see you, of course, my dear Kate, and to dis- 


Vanity! 235 

cuss with you certain little matters that bear 
upon the present situation.” 

I threw myself into a chair. All that was 
hard and defiant and desperate in my nature 
sprang to arms at his tone and manner. I 
felt a hatred and horror of him that were well- 
nigh murderous. 

“ What matters ?” I asked brusquely. 

He glanced round. “ They cannot be dis- 
cussed in a moment, and talking is somewhat 
dry work. May I suggest your requesting 
that amiable French domestic of yours to 
bring me some — well — champagne, let us say. 
You are evidently in clover here, and I have 
no doubt your taste in brands of wine and 
liqueur is as it used to be.” 

“ You have forced your presence on me,” I 
said, “with the plea of business. State that 
business and go. This is my house ; you have 
no right here any longer. Understand that, 
once for all, before I summon the law to help 
me 1 ” 

“ So that is the position you mean to take. 
Very well. So much the worse for you.” 

He too drew up a chair, seated himself with 
his arms on the back and fixed his evil, threat- 
ening eyes upon me. 

For one moment my heart sank. I wished 
that Wildash w^s here . . . that I had any one 
to help me. But despair lent me strength 


236 Vanity! 

and I waited to hear the form his threat would 
take. 

“ You think yourself unassailable, I sup- 
pose,” he sneered. “ Living here, keeping up 
an establishment of this sort, where your fine 
customers pay for the use of your rooms to 
meet their lovers. . . . Oh 1 yes. A very im- 
maculate piece of virtue you are 1 You and 
your d d Irish partner 1 ” 

I sprang to my feet, crimson and shaking 
with rage and indignation. 

“ How dare you say such things, how dare 
you 1 ” 

“ Oh 1 I’ll dare say a good deal worse than 
that, and do it too, my pretty vixen. There’s 
many an old score between us, and, by Jove ! 
I’ll wipe one off to-night at all events. Don't 
think you can defy me, or I’ll knock you and 
your pretended business to the four winds 1 
A word to the police, another to some of the 
deluded husbands of your fine customers, and 
where are you. I’d like to know ? Besides, 
there’s that little affair at Thornhill. It would 
look rather queer that the moment you got 
yourself invited down to a respectable house a 
burglary should take place, eh ? And if you 
defend yourself you only prove that you were 
the accomplice of your husband 1 ” 

“ What do you want ? . . . What do you 
mean by these threats ? ” I cried passionately. 


Vanity! 237 

“ In any case if you ruin me you ruin yourself. 
You’ll be taken back to prison. . . . What 
have you to gain ? ” 

“ Do you think I haven’t weighed all that, 
my lady? . . . There are times in life when 
vengeance looks sweeter than anything else 1 
I’ve had five years of hell. I got out of it 
hating every living creature, but hating you 
the most. For it’s to you I owed that arrest. 
Oh 1 you may deny it as you please, but Pierce 
Justin rounded on you after that affair in Brus- 
sels, and I know how you tricked me ! ” 

“ That brute 1 ” I scoffed contemptuously. 
“ A drunken sot who would sell his soul for a 
bottle of ‘ petit hleiiJ And you believed him ? ” 
“ It suited me to believe him. I knew you 
hated me, and it was a good way to get rid of 
me. But it’s my turn now. You’ll either pay 
me ten thousand pounds to keep silence, or 
I’ll expose you and your business for what it 
is, and let your bully of an Irishman make the 
best of it — then 1 ” 

How he could know of Wildash . . . and 
how he could have patched up such a history 
of suspicion and probability amazed me. I 
knew his mind was too vile to harbor a single 
innocent thought of man or woman, but I had 
not supposed that constructions so monstrous 
could have been placed on my actions. I re- 
^membered Lady Farringdon’s words. That 


238 Vanity! 

she was suspected— watched. Had these facts 
come to his ears ? If not, how could he, on 
mere supposition, have concocted such a hor- 
rible plot. 

I rose from my chair. “What you ask is 
both preposterous and impossible,” I said 
coldly. “ I couldn’t pay a quarter of such a 
sum, if my life depended on it. If you don’t 
believe me I can show you my bank-book.” 

He laughed harshly. “ I never supposed 
you had as much lying to your credit,” he 
answered. “ But you can easily get it.” He 
drew out a paper and glanced rapidly over 
its contents. “ You have rich customers and 
plenty of them. You can — borrow— shall we 
say ? . . . What about Captain Calhoun, the 
amiable friend of Lady Farringdon ? what of 

the duke of M ? what of Lord Sopping- 

ton ? . . . What of various husbands whose 
wives you have obliged ? . . . Oh 1 this is no 
time for pretences, my lady, and if I’m to 
swing, by heaven you’ll have a taste of the 
humiliation. You shelved me and changed 
your name. You set up here on the strength 
of borrowed money (I don’t ask what else be- 
sides interest you paid to Abrahams). You’ve 
appeared discretion itself, and all the time 
you’ve lived a double life, and the world shall 
know it 1 ” 

“Very well,” I said doggedly. “Let the 


Vanity! 239 

world know it. Do your worst. Fm beyond 
caring for that now. I know you, and I know 
I have nothing but persecution and misery to 
expect at your hands while you live. But not 
one farthing do I give to help that life, or keep 
you from the fate you’ve challenged. If you 
are desperate, so am I. The memory of those 
awful days spent with you is enough to crush 
out any pity or any feeling for you. I repeat 
— I defy you. You can do your worst.” 

My hand was on the bell. He sprang for- 
ward and clutched my arm. 

“ Think again,” he said. “ Think before 
you drive me out once more. You may have 
peace, freedom, love, all for that sum I ask 
you. ril sign anything, swear anything. Fm 
going away out of this cursed country. You’ll 
never see me again. . . . You need have no 
fear of that. . . . Leave that bell alone 1 If 
you ring it, I swear it will be your death- 
warrant.” 

He held my arms in a grip so strong and 
fierce that I was powerless to move. Face to 
face, eye to eye, so we stood for one moment 
of defiance and of dread. 

“Will you do what I ask ?” he demanded. 

My brain felt dizzy. The room seemed to 
swim before me. I closed my eyes, and sud- 
den darkness enveloped me. 

Then, through the mist of reeling senses, I 


240 Vanity! 

caught a sound — the sound of a footstep, 
quick, firm, alert. The door swung open. 
Before I could cry or move, I saw a figure 
spring forward. My arms were released. 
Two strong hands were at the bully’s throat, 
and he was shaken to and fro as a terrier 
shakes a rat. 

“ You cur ! Frightening a woman out of 
her senses ! . . . Kate, there’s a policeman 
outside. Open the window and call him. 
This blackguard sha’n’t escape.” 

I rushed forward. As I reached the win- 
dow a hoarse shout stayed me. 

“Wait,” it said. “ Remember Thornhill.” 


Vanity! 


241 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

I STOPPED. My hand was on the window. 
I could hear the traffic below— the roll of car- 
riages, the tramp of feet. 

Involuntarily I looked at Wildash. His 
hands were still on that brute’s throat, but he 
turned and met my glance. 

“ Give the alarm . . . call the police,” mut- 
tered Jasper, hoarsely, “ and I tell the story of 
how you let me in to Thornhill Manor, and 
got me out.” 

“ You brute, you thief 1 Who do you 
think would believe you ? ” shouted Wildash, 
furiously. 

“A good many people when they know 
she’s my wife,” he answered. 

“ He is right,” I said doggedly. “ It’s no 
use, Harry. I’m at his mercy. He came to 
blackmail me as I expected. I can’t and 
won’t pay for his silence. Let him go. . . . 
Let him do his worst. I don’t care.” 

I dropped into a chair, weak and unnerved 
by that terrible scene. The tears rushed to 
my eyes, and shut out the fierce faces of the 
16 


242 Vanity! 

two men. I seemed to know that Wildash 
had relaxed his grip. I could hear the la- 
bored breathing of Jasper Crosse. In that one 
moment, the whole of my life flashed before 
me. . . . All I had done and suffered and re- 
pented of. I felt as if I faced death, for all 
hope of anything good or helpful had vanished 
before this man’s hateful presence. 

Then again I heard Wildash speaking. 
“What will you take,” he said, “ to hold your 
tongue ? To let the law free her, and get out 
of the country ? ” 

“ Ah 1 now you’re talking sense,” sneered 
Jasper. “ That’s what I came about to-night. 
I told her straight that I’d do all this, swear, 
promise anything for ten thousand pounds.” 

“ And I refused to give a penny 1 ” I ex- 
claimed. “ Harry, don’t listen to him. He 
cannot be trusted. To answer his demands 
now is only to lay myself open to them again 
and again. I will not do it.” 

Harry released the ruffian, and stood facing 
him with wrathful eyes. 

“ Now listen,” he said. “ I’ll give you a last 
chance — one only. I hardly suppose you’re 
anxious to go back to convict life, and it 
would be a poor satisfaction to put your own 
head in a noose for sake of revenging your- 
self on your wife. I offer you five thousand 
pounds . . . money down, and that’s all you’ll 


243 


Vanity! 

ever get from her, or me. For this sum you 
are to offer no opposition to the divorce for 
which she will apply. ... You will sign a 
paper to that effect as well as a promise that 
you make no further claim on her.’' 

“ D d if ril do anything of the sort for 

such a paltry sum,” answered the bully, dog- 
gedly. “ Ten thou — not a penny less, or I’ll 
smash up her business and her reputation. 
You’ll suffer, too, my fine fellow. I’m not 
alone in the boat this time.” 

Wildash gave a short, hard laugh. Then 
he took out a cigarette from his case, lit it 
deliberately, walked over to the door and threw 
it open. 

“ Go 1 ” he said. 

Jasper’s face turned ashy gray. His sullen 
eyes turned from one to the other of us. 

“ You defy me — then ? ” 

“ I do . . . go, do your worst. You walk 
from this house back to your prison. I fol- 
lowed you here to-night. I have a police of- 
ficer waiting below. I told him I had reason 
to suspect a man was on the premises for some 
unlawful purpose. . . . The moment I blow 
this whistle he will come up-stairs. I shall 
inform him who you are. I — ” 

My eyes had been on Jasper. . . . Sud- 
denly I saw his hand go to his breast pocket. 
I sprang to my feet. A loud report drowned 


244 


Vanity! 

my scream of warning, and Harry fell across 
the doorway, his white shirt dyed red with a 
gush of blood. 

Over his prostrate body Jasper Crosse leaped 
to freedom. As I threw myself beside Harry 
he thrust the signal whistle into my hand. 
“ Blow it for God’s sake 1 ” he whispered. 

I obeyed. A shrill summons sounded. . . . 
I heard voices, oaths, hurried footsteps. Then 
silence and darkness overwhelmed me. ... I 
knew no more. 

When I recovered my senses I was lying on 
my own bed, and Babette was bathing my 
forehead and murmuring expressions of pity 
and wonder and horror. 

For a moment or two I could remember 
nothing. My thoughts were confused, my 
brain dazed and stunned. Then gradually 
the horrors of that scene came back to me. 
I sprang up in bed ... a low cry escaped my 
lips. 

“ Is he . . . is he dead ? ” I gasped. 

“ No, madame. Restez tranquille. It is af- 
freiix terrible. But not as madame fears. The 
vilain murderer they have arrested. Le pauvre 
monsieur he is removed to the hospital of 
Charing Cross ... to have mended his 
wound. . . . And madame, she has the fright, 
the shock. She must be kept quiet. I have 


245 


Vanity! 

sent for the doctor. He come — vite. It will 
be soon all well. Madame must rest and not 
so agitate herself.” 

I sank back on the pillows. The worst had 
come then. There was no need to dread it any 
longer. And now that it was irrevocable, that 
the blow had fallen, a sort of sullen resignation 
that was almost relief came over me. 

The matter was beyond my interference or 
control. Jasper had been arrested. He would 
be taken back to prison. He would be tried 
for this murderous assault. My story would 
come out, and . . . Well, I would be ruined 
financially and socially I supposed. 

Somehow that did not seem to trouble me 
now. In a great crisis all lesser troubles sink 
into insignificance. I closed my eyes, and 
Babette’s chatter rippled on like an endless 
brook. I could only think of Harry. For my 
sake he was suffering . . . his life was in peril. 
For my sake he would have to face odium and 
comment should our story get to the public ear. 
The business that looked so promising after 
all only depended on that frail bark “ Vanity.” 
On the freaks and fancies of women who might 
profess themselves scandalized at forthcoming 
revelations. 

It was of him I thought now, and all that 
was in me of womanly tenderness, pity and 
passion went out to him in that hour. 


246 Vanity! 

If that wound proved fatal ... if he died . . . 
I felt that for me life would be also ended. . . . 
I heard the clock strike midnight. Only twelve 
o’clock and I had lived a tragedy— had looked 
upon despair and almost death. So few hours 
and so much had happened. 

I felt I must nerve myself for the coming 
day. The newspapers would have the story. . . . 
People would be coming to me full of curiosity. 
I should have to give evidence. 

I hid my face, praying vaguely for some sort 
of strength to meet these approaching horrors. 
I shuddered at the thought of the long hours 
before me. I prayed Babette to stay. I re- 
solved to ask the doctor for a sleeping draught 
when he came. 

It was a dull foggy morning when I awoke. 
Babette had lit the fire, and brought me coffee 
and rolls and my morning letters. I asked 
her for the papers. She looked at me entreat- 
ingly. 

“ Mais — Madame — ” 

“ Get them at once,” I said sharply. 

My head still felt dazed and bewildered. I 
turned over the letters hurriedly. There was 
nothing from the hospital. Babette returned 
with the papers. I scanned the columns with 
eager eyes. Yes — there it was 1 

‘‘ Strange Affair in Bond Street.” 


Vanity! 247 

And the usual penny-a-liner’s comments on 
very scanty facts. Another paper headed it 
“ Supposed Burglary.” Yet another gave out, 
“ Attempted Murder of the Head of a Fashion- 
able Emporium.” The affair would be town 
talk by now. 

“ I must get up,” I said to Babette. “ But I 
cannot see any one in the showroom. The ap- 
pointments I will wire about. Any one else 
must be told I am ill. And here ... let 
Patterson go off to the hospital at once for 
news of Mr. Wildash. He is not to come back 
without some account of how he is.” 

I threw on a dressing-gown and wrote the 
necessary telegrams and notes. I felt wretch- 
edly ill and unnerved still. As soon as the 
last letter was finished I lay down on the 
couch before the fire. Soon enough I knew 
my troubles would begin. I should have re- 
porters coming, My depositions would be 
required. I must engage a solicitor. There 
would be no more peace or rest for me till the 
whole wretched business had been concluded 
— and then — Well, something seemed to tell 
me I should have rest enough at last. 


“ Kate . . . won’t you see me ? Babette 
refused, but I felt sure you'd let me in.” 

It was Di Abercroft’s voice. I had forgotten 


248 Vanity! 

her. Forgotten too what a shock the news in 
those morning papers would be. 

I crossed to the door and admitted her. 
Her face was pale and anxious, her eyes full 
of concern. 

“Oh! my dear,” she cried. “Is it true? 
. . . how horrible ! Do tell me what really 
happened ? ” 

I told her as briefly as possible of that scene 
and its result. 

Her horror almost equaled my own. “ At 
the worst I never imagined anything so dread- 
ful .. . it’s worse than you suspected. And 
poor Harry I How is he ? The wound wasn’t 
fatal, thank God 1 ” 

“ I’ve not heard yet,” I answered. 

There was a moment of dead silence. Then 
suddenly I began to tremble and broke into 
helpless sobbing. She did her best to soothe 
me, but I had lost all self-control. 

She stayed with me all that day, even inter- 
viewing callers and seeing reporters. The 
doctor ordered me perfect quiet. I was suffer- 
ing from shock— temporary derangement of the 
nervous system. On no account was I to be 
disturbed. 

I spent that whole day on the sofa, racked 
by suspense and anxiety. My head throbbed 
as if it would burst. Even tears brought no 


249 


Vanity! 

relief. Di’s presence was a comfort for which 
I was dumbly grateful. I was too worn out for 
speech. 

Towards evening the pain grew less violent. 
I had heard twice from the hospital. Harry 
was seriously injured, but they were hopeful. 
The bullet had pierced the shoulder blade. 
It was to be extracted the following day if his 
strength allowed of it. 

Shortly after the second message a letter 
reached me marked Immediate. 

I opened it and saw it was from Mrs. Peck. 

“ My dear Mrs. Costello,” she wrote. “ How 
terrible for you, and only fancy, my daughter 
Josephine insisted on going to the hospital her- 
self. . . . And she would see Mr. Wildash, and 
oh ! the scandal of it. . . . I’m nearly dis- 
tracted. She vows she’ll visit him there every 
day, and her poppa and I can’t help it. She’s 
just demented. What am I to do ? The whole 
town is ringing with the affair. I met quite a 
number of your customers at the New Gallery, 
and they could talk of nothing else. . . . May 
I see you to-morrow ? It will be the death of 
me if Josey goes on as she is doing.” 

I laughed bitterly. Then I handed the let- 
ter to Di. She read it slowly. 

“ More complications, I see. Well, dear, 
it’s not your fault if the girl chooses to get her- 
self talked about. Besides, it will only be con- 


250 Vanity! 

sidered American eccentricity. Her dollars 
would cover any caprice.’' 

“ I think,” I said slowly, “ it would be better 
for him if he responded to this devotion. It 
isn’t as if he was a nobody. He is by far her 
superior in birth, and he may come into that 
title, and her money will do wonders for the 
estate. As for the parent’s objection — Joseyis 
not likely to mind them” 

She looked at me astonished. “ What are 
you saying, Kate ? I thought you were madly 
in love with him — only yesterday.” 

“ Many things have happened since yester- 
day,” I said. “Yesterday my affairs were not 
a public scandal. . . . Yesterday people could 
not say I was the wife of a forger, a thief, and 
almost a murderer. Scandals are burrs that 
cling to a woman’s skirts too closely for de- 
tachment. In a week’s time my skirts will be 
weighted with burrs. The man who tries to 
rid me of them will only prick his own fingers 
and attach them to himself. I have looked 
happiness in the face only to know it is not for 
me. I shall never drag any one I love into this 
network of infamy and disgrace.” 

“You would have the courage to send him 
from you, after he has risked his life on your 
behalf ? ” 

“ Better to send him while I have the cour- 
age, . . . while another is at hand to soothe 


Vanity! 251 

his wounded vanity, than see him repent all 
his life long.” 

“Why should he ? . . . What makes you 
think so ? ” 

“ There is too much likelihood of it. I 
could not risk shipwreck a second time.” 

“ I fancy you misjudge Harry. He has faults, 
but not vices. And I am sure he loves you.” 

“He will love me all the more if he never 
wins me,” I said bitterly. “That is what a 
man always does. And Josey Peck will be a 
better wife to him than ever I could be. She 
has not outlived all softness and sentiment and 
romance. She has no past of horrors on which 
to look back.” 

“ Your past is not half as bad as some I 
could mention,” she said. “ At least, you have 
not been the sinner.” 

“ Appearances are against me. There is so 
much that can be said . . . that I could not 
combat or deny.” 

“ You seem determined to make the worst 
of things to-night.” 

“ There is no ‘ best ’ to make of them. I 
seem to have come to the end of everything — 
even of caring for what was dearest to me.” 

“You are wearied and overwrought, Kate. 
Things will get better, believe me. The clouds 
will clear. Your spirits will rebound. You 
will not be so willing to throw away happiness 


252 Vanity! 

then. It doesn’t come to us so often that we 
can afford to play with it.” 

“There is no question,” I said, “ of playing 
with it. I seem to have been asleep and sud- 
denly awakened. I wondered how I could 
have been so foolish as to believe I was safe, 
or going to be happy. I might have known 
something would happen. That has always 
been my fate. ... You see I began badly. I 
had all a girl’s delusions, and more than an 
ordinary girl’s ignorance. I thought men were 
all strong and earnest of purpose, and brave 
and tender. That they would not hurt a 
woman. . . . And oh 1 Di, I have been hurt 
again and again — so cruelly.” 

“ I know. . . . We all learn the possibility 
of such hurts.” 

“ Yes, but with some it is only possible, not 
real. When I thought I was free, it was dif- 
ferent. I let myself go. He had that 
way. ... You know what I mean, Di— per- 
suasive, caressing, dominating. And we were 
such good friends. Well, I’ve had one happy 
year — that is something.” 

“ One,” she said. “ Poor child 1 And life 
not half lived.” 

“ I have lived as much of it as I care for or 
desire. I seem to have reached a stage of in- 
difference. This has killed hope and ambi- 
tion. Everything is changed since last night. 


Vanity! 253 

I couldn’t begin again. I couldn’t endure the 
curiosity of those foolish women. They will 
all learn my history, and add to and improve 
upon it. Not that that matters very much. 
They would still come to me if they thought I 
made better that any one else. But I don’t, 
Di. And without Harry to back me up all 
the energy would flag.” 

“But, dear, it seems to me that you yourself 
are putting Harry away.” 

“ Because if I do not I know a time will 
come when he will want to put himself away. 
That would . . . would hurt me, Di. Against 
my better judgment I gave in before. Look 
at what I have brought upon his head.” 

She was silent. 

“ I have lived a lifetime since last night,” I 
went on. “ I have been blind and deaf long 
enough. I can never be it again. Distrust is 
born in me afresh— I will curse no other life 
with the misery of my own.” 

I sank back on the cushions. Stone could 
not have been colder nor iron harder than my 
heart had grown to all emotions and senti- 
ments. 

My eyes fell on the loose, slovenly writing 
of Mrs. Peck. I took up the letter and read it 
slowly through. 

“ It must answer itself,” I said. “I will do 
nothing.” 


254 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Di has left me at last. 

Left me to my new mood of hardness. To 
the fixed despair that has fastened upon my 
soul. 

“ Vanity of vanities 1 ” I say to myself. “ All 
is vanity.” 

And life looks but vanity and folly to me 
now in this black hour. I know what lies 
before me. I know what I have to face. I 
am aware that the Bond Street scandal will be 
a sweet morsel for the garbage-pickers of all 
ranks and grades. I can almost see what the 
notice boards will display. I can almost read 
the history as the evening papers will give it. 
The history of the fashionable dressmaker with 
a convict husband. The escape of the hus- 
band and his discovery of her luxurious sur- 
roundings. The entrance of the lover . . . 
the quarrel ; rage — jealousy — and revenge I 
Oh ! it will be fine reading for the public, and 
what can I do or say to explain away a false 
position! To-morrow the inquiry begins. 
They have taken Wildash’s deposition. I have 


Vanity! 255 

to appear as witness . . . witness against the 
man who still calls me wife 1 

Nothing can help me — nothing can avert 
the scandal. It is a stone that will gather 
moss as it rolls, it will reveal all that I have 
strenuously endeavored to conceal. I may as 
well throw up the sponge, and be done with 
pretense. 

The world will know me, not as I am, but 
as my life’s enemy chooses to say that I am. 
Vile as he is, his vileness will only throw a 
darker shadow on myself. To have been 
one with him speaks eternal condemnation. I 
see that now — but it is too late to alter anything. 

Fate must do its worst. 

Wide awake I lie. ... I cannot sleep. I 
ask myself whether it would not be better to 
end suspense and life together. It could be 
done — so easily. An overdose of chloral . . . 
the friend who has helped me in many a 
troubled hour and sleepless night ; and then 
no more waking to misery, no more trouble, 
no more tears. And Harry— he too would be 
free. Free to make Josey happy. To raise 
her to his ancestral honors perhaps ... to 
live rich, prosperous, well content in his own 
country and among his own kin. 

I have been only a shadow on his life. He 
will soon forget me. 


256 Vanity! 

The idea takes overmastering possession of 
my mind. I rise from bed, and go to the 
little medicine cupboard above my washstand. 
There is the bottle. I hold it in my hand a 
moment, trying to realize the mysterious power 
that is contained in this tiny phial. Strangely 
enough, as I so stand and look at it, there 
rushes back to me the memory of that morbid- 
minded boy whose tragic end had blighted 
my summer holiday. 

I almost seem to see him. His pallid face, 
his strange eyes, his languid smile. I close 
my own eyes and give myself up to the spell 
of imagination and memory. The sea stretches 
before me. Again the golden moonlight shines 
upon its rippling surface. . . . Again the 
monotonous splash of the waves sounds in 
my ear. 

Suddenly — something — an icy breath, a chill 
of terror overpowers my senses. 

A whisper, faint as a sigh, steals to my ear. 
One word only — “ Don't—' 

That is all. But my eyes sharply unclose, 
and with a shudder I start and step back 
from the seeming presence of an outstretched 
hand. 

The bottle falls at my feet and is shivered 
to a thousand fragments. 

I stoop over them in sudden dismay . . . 
at the same moment I hear at the front door 


Vanity! 257 

the sharp rat-tat of a telegraph messenger. 
Before Babette knocks I seem to have grown 
calm and like myself once more. I know I 
have had a warning ... I feel convinced but 
for it I should have swallowed that poison. 
Now ... it is beyond my power to do so. 

I take the yellow missive with indifference. 
A few moments I had so nearly done with life 
that I scarcely realize its importance again. 
The lamp is growing dim. I take the paper 
close to it. I read . . . What ? 

Jasper Crosse committed suicide by hang- 
ing himself in his cell at eight o'clock to-night." 

I fell into the chair with an hysterical cry. 
I did not even know Babette was there. 

How does the brain work in moments such 
as these ? What words can describe the pass- 
age of feeling from despair to relief ? From 
death to life ? . . . 

I lived in memory those lines of Adelaide 
Procter’s : — 

‘ ‘ In that one moment’s anguish 
Your thousand years have passed.” 

It seemed indeed a thousand years. A 
double lifetime. But one cannot speak of 
such a moment. One dare not. . . . 

Oh 1 thank God 1 Thank God 1 I am free 
... I am safe. 


17 


.258 Vanity! 

It is a month since I wrote those words. 

A month. 

Has the world gone and have I — alone- 
stood still with a blank record of days and 
weeks around me ? 

I ask myself this as I lie in the dreamy 
peace of convalescence among my heaped-up 
pillows, beside my bright wood fire. 

I have been very ill, they say. Well, that 
was to be expected. A woman could not 
undergo such terrible mental and physical 
strain as I had undergone in this past year 
without a breakdown of some sort. Mine 
came after that moment of relief which was 
the last record in my diary. 

I was free. Jasper Crosse had ended his 
evil life in a moment of blind rage against the 
Fate he had defied. I know no particulars. 
I asked for none, nor do I intend to do so. 

It is sufficient to know he will not trouble 
me again. 

Free 1 How sweet the word is . . . how 
full my heart seems of gratitude and peace. 
I close my eyes. When I open them again 
the nurse is standing by me with a pile of let- 
ters and papers that have accumulated during 
my illness. 

“You are well enough to read them now,” 
she says. “I am going out for an 'hour. 
Babette will be within call.” 


Vanity! 259 

I watch her gray skirt and gray veil out of 
the door. Then I glance at the pile on the 
little table by my couch. I turn them over. 

One is from Di Abercroft. I open that 
first. It is dated only yesterday. 

“ My dear,” it says. “ I hear you are rapidly 
mending. You will soon be all right. I write 
to tell you that the business went on the same 
as ever. I looked after it. And the little 
duchess’s was duly executed. She was mar- 
ried last week. A few new people dropped 
in — I saw them for you. The scandal was soon 
hushed up and they got no word of it from me, 
Mrs. lackey Beauchamp, the Mrs. lackey Beau- 
champ, who is a power in the social world, has 
given you an order. I am not sure about the 
money, but she is quite the sort of person to 
make you, and as she took a fancy to one of 
the models I executed a variation on it which 
pleased her fastidious taste immensely. In- 
deed, it was a stroke of genius for which you 
ought to be grateful. 

“ Tender inquiries from poor Wildash. He 
has had a harder fight for it than was sup- 
posed. I saw him last week. He is to leave 
the hospital to-day. The bullet went danger- 
ously near his right lung. He is a perfect 
shadow of what he was. The devotion of the 
little Peck girl has been the talk of society and 


26o Vanity! 

the despair of ‘ Poppa and Momma Peck/^ 
You see dollars carry weight even with hos- 
pital authorities. I believe she visited him 
every day. He will call on you as soon as you 
are allowed to see any one. He couldn’t write. 
He wasn’t allowed to use his arm. 

“ The business is to go on, so he says — and 
it really looks most flourishing in spite of 
the absence of the ‘ two heads.’ Luckily 
this is a slack time. If it had been the season 
I don’t know what you’d have done. That 
little ‘ Jacks ’ is a treasure. Fd raise her sal- 
ary if I were you. She’s worth it. She man- 
aged the whole workroom. I think I’ve told 
you all that is necessary. I’ll call round as 
soon as I’m told you can see me. Cheer up, 
little woman. Your long lane has reached its 
turning I think. — Ever yours, Di.” 

My eyes filled with grateful tears as I read 
these lines. She had, indeed, been a friend to 
me. I felt I could never repay her sufficiently. 
It is one woman in a thousand who proves her 
friendship. The other nine hundred and 
ninety-nine are content with professing it. 

So after all Vanity was holding its own. 
The Court of Fashion would not close its 
doors on anything that ministered successfully 
to its necessities. 

^ The ball was set a-rolling once more. The 


26 i 


Vanity! 

puppets were ready to dance. I had but to 
rise and take my place as of old and pull the 
strings, and set them going to the tune they 
loved best. The tune was Novelty, the in- 
strument La Mode. Let wars come, and lives 
be sacrificed, let hearts ache or break, or 
reputations die, let come what may of good or 
ill, of misery or happiness, women must dress, 
and Fashion will hold her own as their idol 
while the world is a power and ruled by the 
caprice of the Eternal Feminine 1 


The rest of my correspondence was com- 
paratively unimportant. Bills, orders, circu- 
lars from large firms. All the mass of rubbish 
that accumulates as tribute to unnecessary 
postal deliveries. 

A few checks gladdened my eyes, and my 
credit seemed fairly established with certain 
business houses who asked a renewal of cus- 
tom on liberal terms. 

Fortune was evidently bent on showing me 
the smile of favor at last. Soothed and tran- 
quilized, I lay back among my cushions, and 
took counsel with myself as to the future. 

That future concerned itself especially now 
with the continuation of my partnership with 
Harry Wildash. I thought of it from a new 
standpoint, a less selfish Qm thm formerly, 


262 Vanity! 

In order to bring all particulars of the matter 
clearly to my mind I took out my diary and 
read the record of those past months. I stud- 
ied Wildash in the light they showed him. I 
weighed that fascinating personality of his 
against my own powers of resistance. I asked 
myself whether his declaration of love had 
sprung from anything stronger than pity, sym- 
pathy, comradeship. 

It seemed to me as I read those entries that 
a marriage with me would have very disastrous 
results for his future. I had been caught up 
in a whirlwind of emotion, and amidst the 
complex elements of jealousy, and fear, and 
passion, and desire I had lost sight of what was 
best for him. I had thought only of the joy 
of winning what was dear to myself. 

Subsequent events had brought me face to 
face with horrors that had made life real and 
the situation perilous. 

That restless feverish time had passed. I 
felt aged by years and terrors. I looked back 
on a stage of feeling on which the curtain had 
dropped. To raise it was only to look on dis- 
order and desolation. Chaos lay behind. . . . 
My tragedy had had a long final act. It was 
over. 

How clearly I seemed to see things now. 
How different they looked 1 But I saw his 
face, and heard hi§ voice as he said, “ I am too 


Vanity! 263 

fond of you to let your life lie at the mercy of 
such a brute” 

Fond. But did that mean love ? The pre- 
eminent, all-powerful passion for which alone 
sacrifice is necessary and unheeded. Was it 
not only that he had grown used to me ? We 
had been good friends — comrades ... in a 
moment of weakness I had shown him too 
plainly that I cared for him. The result was 
that brief confession which had hurried us 
into a drama of consequences as horrible as it 
was brief. 

Now — everything was altered. 

“ It must never be,” I told myself. “ He 
would soon regret ... it stands to reason he 
must regret.” 

I closed the book and put it away. Perhaps 
I put away with it something sadder than for- 
feited hope ... for I knew I had looked my 
last on all that makes a woman’s life endurable. 
The gates of Paradise only open once for mor- 
tal eyes. . . . They closed for me ere I had 
even seen what lay beyond. 


264 


Vanityl 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

I WOKE from a long sleep. The room was 
dusk. I saw the gray figure of the nurse dozing 
in her chair by the fire. The clock on the 
chimney-piece was softly chiming five. 

I stirred and sat up. 

“ Wasn’t that a knock at the door ? ” I asked. 

She moved across the room and opened it. 
I heard a whispered colloquy. My ears were 
sharp. I recognized the faint nasal twang of 
Josey Peck’s voice. 

“ Come in,” I said loudly. “ That’s Miss 
Peck, I’m sure. I should like to see her.” 

She entered— a quiet, subdued figure, dressed 
all in faint gray and silver fox furs. The per- 
fume of a huge bunch of violets which she 
carried filled the room delightfully. She knelt 
by the couch and took my hands. 

“You poor dear,” she said. “ I am so glad 
you’re better. I’ve called here heaps of times, 
but they said no one was allowed to see 
you.” 

“ That was good of you,” I said gratefully. 
“ I suppose I have been very ill. One never 


Vanity! 265 

knows — oneself. It’s all hazy and like a bad 
dream . . . only weakness left.” 

The nurse touched the electric button, and 
a rosy light shed itself over the dusk of the 
room. 

I thought how lovely she looked with her 
cheeks flushed by the cool air, and her eyes 
no longer sparkling and alert but full of a new 
and tender earnestness. Was it in this guise 
she had played ministering angel to Wildash ? 
If so — 

I drew myself away, conscious of a pang of 
jealousy. 

“Won’t you sit down?” I said. “Nurse 
will get us some tea.” 

She rose and sank into the low chair the 
nurse wheeled up to her. She had laid the 
violets on my lap. 

“ I brought them for you,” she said gently. 

Her face was full of grave concern. 

“ Are you looking at my gray hairs ? ” I said, 
touching the loose locks on my temples. 
“ You see what illness does for one.” 

“ Ah I it wasn’t only illness. . . . That shock 
. . . that grief. Oh 1 I know. I heard about 
it from — ” 

“ Heard — what ?” I asked. 

“ The papers had it, you know, and every one 
was talking, and saying how brave you were, 
and how beautifully you had borne your 


i 


266 Vanity! 

troubles. . . . And he tried to kill you — Mr. 
VVildash told me.” 

She spoke with little of the old American- 
isms. The change in her was as surprising in 
a way as the change my glass had shown me 
in m^^self. 

The door closed. The nurse had left to get 
tea. I took my courage in both hands with a 
desperate effort. 

“ I too have heard of you,” I said. “ Of 
how kind and devoted you have been to Mr. 
Wildash. How you have lightened those hours 
of suffering and weariness. How you turned 
a deaf ear to gossip or possible consequence.” 

She flushed rosily. 

“ I just could not help it,” she said simply. 
“ I was so sorry for him, and you couldn’t do 
anything. Seemed as if there was no one else 
— but me.” 

“He must be very grateful to 3^ou ? ” 

“ He don’t say much—ever,” she said, some- 
what consciously. “Quite altered he is at 
times. . . . All the fun and life gone out of 
him. I assure you, Mrs. Costello, often and 
often I’ve gone home and had a good cry after 
I’d left him. The change hurt me so.” 

“Some changes,” I said, “are the result of 
feeling, as much as of circumstances. Devo- 
tion such as yours cannot have failed to touch 
him. If he returned it—” 


Vanity! 267 

“That’s just it,” she interposed. “That’s 
what troubles me. He seems as if he longed 
to speak — and something held him back.” 

A pang shot through my heart. Those words 
echoed through its empty chambers, haunted 
now by ghosts of all that might have been. 

Something held him hack. 

That something was myself ... his prom- 
ise. I had not been wrong in my surmise. 
He had not loved me. ...“lam too fond of 
you ” had meant what I feared it meant. No 
more — no less. 

“ Josey,” I said quietly, “ do you really care 
for Harry Wildash?” 

“Care! . . . I just worship him,” she cried. 
“I don’t mind what he is, rich or poor, com- 
moner or titled. I know I’d just be content 
to lie down at his feet and let him wipe his 
boots on me if it pleased him — so only I had 
him always beside me.” 

Forcible language this. It gave her away 
without effort or pretense. 

I drew a deep breath and nerved my voice 
to steadiness. “ And if,” I said, “ he should 
care equally for you — ” 

“ Oh 1 but he doesn’t. I’m sure of that. I’m 
nothing to him but a crazy American girl, good 
for jokes and fun and all that. I don’t believe 
he ever dreams how dearly I love him.” 

Her pretty face had grown pale. She was 


268 


Vanity! 

something more then than a “ crazy American 
girl ” in the passion and strength of the lesson 
that Love was teaching her. 

“ Of course I know I’m not a lady — like 
you,” she went on. “ Poppa was nothing, and 
he married momma when she was only a fac- 
tory girl out Dakota way. And people just 
laugh at them and make use of their money, 
and they won’t see it. But I’m not going to 
sell myself for a title . . . and I’ve told ’em so 
— straight. If I can’t have the man I care for, 
well. I’ll take no one else.” 

Her eyes filled with tears. The firelight 
glistened on them as they rolled down on the 
silvery furs that lay loose about her throat. It 
was a pretty picture, and the reality of her grief 
lent a touch of irony to its mere prettiness. 

“ I think you are right,” I said. “ Love is 
worth all the riches and titles in the world. 
. . . You will be none the worse for having 
learnt that, even if — ” 

“If it is only on one side?” she asked. 
“ There is some good in it, isn’t there ? It’s 
not the false thing people pretend — smart 
people I mean ? ” 

“ No — not always.” 

“ I have been very unhappy,” she went on. 
“ And it’s not natural to me to be that. You 
see life’s always been made just as nice as ever 
it could be. I’ve had everything I wanted, 


Vanity! 269 

and when I came over to Eu-rope and had 
strings and strings of men following me and 
flattering and wanting to marry me, I thought 
I was only having a rattlin’ good time. I never 
supposed that the only one man for whom I 
cared a straw would be so hard to win over.” 

“ I think you will win him — in the end,” I 
said cheerfully. “ But you must have patience. 
Now here is the tea. You shall pour it out 
for me. This is the first day I’ve been allowed 
to sit up.” 

“ Oh I ” . . . she cried, with quick regret. 
“ Why didn’t you say so? I’ve been tiring you 
chattering about my own foolish troubles, and 
quite forgetting you’re so weak.” 

“ I am strong enough to hear a great deal 
more of your chatter,” I said, smiling. “ You 
are like a breeze from the outer world. I seem 
to have been shut away from it for years I ” 

“ What a bad time you’ve been having,” she 
said, as she poured out the tea. “ No wonder 
you’re so changed.” 

“You find me very much changed?” I 
asked. 

“ Well,” she said frankly, “ it stands to reason 
I do. I’ve always seen 3W1 beautifully dressed, 
bright, smiling, happy-looking. Now— 3^ou’ve 
lost all 3^our color, and are as thin as a shadow, 
and 3^our lovely hair all silvery in front. . . . 
Not but what I think you’re lovely anyway. 


270 Vanity! 

And when you’re well, I s’pose there won’t be^ 
any sort of difference, but just at first — ” 

“ It was a bit of a shock ?" I questioned. 

She laughed. “Not that so much as a 
surprise.” 

“ I suppose,” I said tranquilly, “ it would be 
a surprise to any one who had last seen me as\ 
you describe, beautifully dressed, bright, smil- 
ing, happy ? ” ' 

“ I guess it would, until they got used to it.”, 

“ How old are you, Josey ? ” I asked. 

“ Nineteen next month.” 

“ And I shall be thirty. Does that sound 
very old ? ” 

“Well, we reckon it old for a woman in 
America, but w^e don’t wear as well as your 
people here. Guess it’s our hot rooms and 
iced drinks and candies that spoil our com- 
plexions and teeth.” 

I was listening vaguely. My thoughts had 
drifted to something else— a scheme, a plan to 
satisfy my own doubts and further her interests. 

She finished her tea and then went over to 
the glass and adjusted her hat and furs. 

“ It’s done me real good this talk with you,” 
she said. “ When may I come again ? ” 

“ Come the day after to-morrow,” I answered, 
“ at the same time.” 

“You’re just real sweet to me. May I . . . 
would you mind if I— kissed you ?” 


Vanity! 271 

The touch of those fresh young lips on my 
pale cheeks, the sight of the fresh young face 
so strangely winning in its earnestness, these 
remained with me for long after she had gone. 
For long after I had sent a message to Harry 
and received its answer. 

I begged him to come round this evening 
at eight o'clock. 

He merely wrote— “ Yes.’* 


2/2 


Vanity! 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

My reply to the nurse’s remonstrance was 
brief but effective. “If it kills me I must see 
the friend who is coming to-night.” 

She gave me my tonic-draught, shrugged 
her shoulders, and retired to the dressing- 
room. 

Left alone, I took up the hand-glass for 
which I had asked and scanned my altered 
appearance mercilessly. 

Yes— Josey was right. I had altered ter- 
ribly. My face was thin and pale, my eyes 
sunken. Those straying silver threads about 
my temples were plainly visible. The loose 
black gown I had selected added to my pallor 
and my age. I knew I looked old and worn. 
It would suit my purpose. 

I and Vanity had said good-by to one 
another. There was no longer any reason for 
me to care if I looked ill or well, pretty or plain. 
I lay back on the white pillows. The violets 
Josey had brought me were in a bowl on the 
little table by my side. The electric light in 
its rosy shades gleamed warmly over the pretty 


Vanity! 273 

room. I looked at it and thought of all that 
had happened since I chose its furniture and 
decorations. I had been anxious, miserable, 
and happy. I had spent hours here racked 
with dread and filled with pain . . . and a few 
of blissful dreams. 

In the mirror opposite I could see myself 
now, a thin, wasted figure with melancholy 
eyes. I smiled bitterly. What had I in com- 
mon with love . . . with hope ? The foolish 
fond joys that make up a woman’s youth and 
keep it youth as love decrees. Neither love 
-nor lover would decree it for me, and the smile 
faded and my cheeks grew paler as I gazed. 
For what I saw was that ghost of the dead and 
beautiful that a woman cherishes and clings to 
with a passionate fidelity all the years of her 
life. 

The ghost of my dead self and all the dreams 
I had dreamt. . . . 

I should never dream again. 

“Kate. . . It was the voice I had longed 
to hear. 

He stood over me, and I read in his eyes 
something of what I had read in Josey’s — 
shock surprise, distress— nothing else. 

I had judged rightly ; but with a smile I 
faced my doom. 

“I am glad to see you and to see you so 

4 18 


274 Vanity! 

well,” I said. “ Won’t you sit there ? . . . You 
are my second visitor to-day.” 

“ I had no idea you had been so ill,” he said, 
taking the chair I had pointed out. He had 
forgotten to kiss me. 

“Oh 1 I shall soon be well again,” I an- 
swered. “You can hardly be surprised that I 
collapsed after that ordeal.” 

“ Don’t let us speak of it,” he said. “ I hate 
even to think of that night.” 

“ No, we won’t speak of it,” I answered. “ I 
asked you here for a very different purpose. 
In a few days I shall be well enough to resume 
work.” 

“I shouldn’t say so — to look at you.” 

“ Oh ! I am of tougher fiber than you sup- 
pose. What I wish to say is something I have 
been thinking of very seriously during the 
time that has passed.” 

His eyes met mine. What I read in them 
was a question, and I hastened to answer it. 

“ Our partnership must end. I can carry on 
the business independently, or dispose of it 
altogether.” 

“ But, Kate, this is very strange. I thought 
that you ... I mean w« — ” 

“ My dear Harry, we both made a mistake, 
and I think we have both recognized it. That 
time is over. Friends we were and are, and I 
hope always will be— but— nothing more.” 


Vanity! 275 

It cost me a great deal to say it. The effort 
made my voice cold and hard enough to deceive 
him as I meant to deceive him. 

“ Don’t be angry with me,” I said. “ We 
have been such good friends. ... I think it 
was a mistake to suppose we would be any the 
happier for changing that friendship. And I 
think, Harry, you ought to give up this line of 
business. You have other prospects. . . . 
You might regret this — one day. People will 
only look upon it as a freak of yours. . . . 
They will soon forget.” 

“ But why should I give it up ? What 
'other prospects ’ do you mean ?” 

I looked at him gravely and searchingly. 

“ I think you know,” I said. “ When you 
marry, Harry, you must marry a woman young 
and hopeful — and innocent . . . not . . . not 
mer 

“You don’t love me then ... or what has 
changed you so ? ” 

“ I have not changed, Harry. ... It is only 
that I have recognized a truth I strove to hide 
from myself and from you. I am old and 
tired, and all the zest has gone out of life. It 
would be a mistake to hold you to an impulsive 
promise. You may have a very different posi- 
tion in the world one day to that which you 
own at present. There is hope in your future 
— there is none in mine.” 


276 Vanity! 

“ What hope do you see that you may not 
share it you will ?” 

I smiled faintly. “The hope of a better 
love than mine — a girl’s honest, unselfish, de- 
voted love. No light gift, Harry. Better 
men than you might envy its possession.” 

I saw the color mount to his brow. “ I 
won’t pretend to misunderstand you, Kate ; 
but do me the justice to believe I have never 
been disloyal to you.” 

“ I am sure of that,” I said earnestly. 

“What have you heard ?” he asked. 

“ I have seen her. But I knew long ago 
that she — cared.” 

“ She is a thousand times too good for me,” 
he said. “ I don’t want her money. I only 
wish she hadn’t any. Every one will say — ” 

“ Never mind what they say. Follow your 
own heart’s dictates. She is better than her 
money, and she has proved her devotion in 
the face of the world.” 

“ It seems odd,” he said, looking searchingly 
at me, “ that you should urge me to marry 
any one else. Why, I came here to-night pre- 
pared to — ” 

I made a hurried gesture. “ Don’t, Harry ; 
all that is over. It couldn’t be. Life looks 
altogether different from what it was. I have 
done with illusions. I only want real, true 
things.” - 


277 


Vanity! 

“ And had I nothing that was true 

“ You did not love me, Harry. You would 
have sacrificed yourself, I know . . . but 
there is no need for sacrifice. Happiness has 
come to you. Take it. Don’t be too proud, 
don’t argue with me, for I know what I am 
saying. I know what is best for you— for my- 
self. Truth comes suddenly to one some- 
times, like a flash, a searchlight. It came so 
to me. You are young and she is young, and 
she loves you. . . . And if you don’t love her 
now, you will some day. It can’t be a very 
hard task. And I want to know you are both 
happy, for I am fond of you — both.” 

“You are putting it very beautifully,” he 
said. “ I wonder if you mean it. I want no 
woman’s sacrifice, Kate . . . and I never met 
a woman like you. It is no light matter to 
forego our pleasant comradeship, our friendly 
confidences.” 

I smiled up at his earnest face. How 
rightly I had judged him. He was “ fond ” of 
me — only that. But love — the one love “ of 
man and woman when they love their best ” — 
that had not been his to give nor mine to gain. 

“They need not alter,” I said. “We shall 
always be friends.” 

“ It seems like leaving you out in the cold.” 

“ Oh, no. A woman who has work and 
occupation is never lonely.” 


278 Vanity! 

He looked around. “ But, Kate, we have 
heavy debts. The expenses of this place are 
enormous. How can you carry it on single- 
handed ?” 

“ I must do my best,” I said, with forced 
cheerfulness. “You will have a rich wife, 
Harry, as well as a loving one — and she will 
not forget me.” 

“ By Jove, she sha'n’t ! nor I either. I 
don’t mind telling you now, Kate, that I do 
love that little girl — awfully. You can have 
no idea how different she is to what I first 
thought her. . . . Why, all the time I lay ill 
and helpless she’d give up anything — balls, 
parties, theaters, no matter what — only to sit 
by my side and read and talk and cheer me. 
It’s hours like those that show the real stuff a 
girl is made of.” 

He rose suddenly, his head thrown back, 
his hands clasped behind him. He began to 
pace the room in the old restless fashion I 
knew so well. 

“ I’m not a coxcomb, or a fool, God knows,” 
he went on. “ But a man can’t help seeing 
when a girl loves him. And to think that 
she might pick and choose among the best 
matches of the day. And she chose to spend 
her hours by a sick-bed in a public hospital 
just to cheer and soothe a poor ne’er-do-weel 
like myself 1 ” 


279 


Vanity! 

“ Such devotion deserves a return/' I said 
quietly. “ But do not underrate yourself, 
Harry. You forget your birth is far superior 
to hers, that you may inherit a title. . . . The 
question of money has no more to do with 
your success than if you were a duke’s son.” 

He shook his head. “ I was so d d rude 

to her mother,” he said characteristically. 

I laughed for the first time for many, many 
weeks. “You must hope to be forgiven,” I 
said. “Josey will be the arbitrator between 
you.” 

He came and sat down beside me again. 

“ What a comforter you are,” he said — a 
new softness and tenderness in his voice. 

I was silent for a moment, battling with feel- 
ings that longed to find vent, but which I had 
rigorously denied outlet. When I had con- 
quered a momentary weakness I asked the 
question I had determined to ask the whole 
evening. I asked it carelessly, with an indif- 
ference that sought to deceive him as to my 
real object. 

“Strange, isn't it,” I said, “how illness 
alters one ? I seem to have lived through 
years ... to have grown old and callous . . . 
different altogether.” I raised one thin hand 
and pushed the hair up from my forehead. 
It was not a becoming fashion, and showed 
lines of anxiety and worry that had not been 


28 o 


Vanity! 

there a year ago. “ Josey hardly knew me,” 
I went on ruthlessly. “ I suppose you found 
me altered too ? ” 

“ I was shocked to see you,” he said unsus- 
pectingly. “ But of course illness alters 
every one. I myself looked an object in the 
hospital.” 

(But that had not killed Josey’s love I 
thought.) 

“ But you mustn’t take it to heart,” he went 
on cheerfully. “ You’ll soon pull round and 
be the same pretty, stylish woman you were 
before . . . before all this. It was an awful 
time . . . awful 1 ” 

Again he rose — again commenced that rest- 
less pacing. I followed him with my eyes. 
A thought — odd and inconsequent — came to 
me at that moment — of a dog I had once 
seen creeping worn and sick to its master’s 
feet. He had kicked it aside, and as it crept 
slowly away to hide itself, I saw the look in 
its eyes, not anger, not reproach, only a dumb 
wonder that its meaning had been misunder- 
stood. 

“ Harry,” I said presently, “ I am getting 
tired. Don’t think me rude if I say you must 
go. This is the first day I have been allowed 
to sit up. . . . I’m not very strong yet.” 

^ “By Jove ! how selfish I am, I quite forgot.” 


Vanity! 281 

He came to my side. He stooped and took 
my hands in his and kissed them. “ You 
look like a broken lily,” he said. 

A little hysterical sob caught my throat. 

“ Oh ! how— romantic,” I said. There had 
come the old look to his face, there was the 
old caressing intonation in his voice. He was 
“ fond ” of me still. 

With a desperate effort I called back my 
failing self-control. 

“ Come again the day after to-morrow,” I 
said, “at five o’clock.” 

“ For any special reason ?” he inquired. 

I drew my hands away. ... I found myself 
looking at them vaguely. The single circlet 
of my wedding-ring slipped loosely round that 
one finger. 

“Yes,” I said. “ She — will be here.” 

I think he said “ God bless you.” I hardly 
know. 

The pain at my heart had grown sharp as 
physical torture. I watched him cross the 
room. He did not look back. Perhaps he 
did not remember. 

When the door closed a shudder ran through 
me. I lay quite still, my head against the 
pillows. 

“ I knew you were overdoing it — I said so.” 

I looked at the gray familiar figure. 


282 


Vanity! 

“ You need not scold me any more,” I said. 
“ I shall be very obedient — now.” 

“ When you’ve well-nigh killed yourself.” 

“ I take a great deal of killing, nurse.” 

“ Don’t be too sure of that.” 

“And there are worse things,” I said. 
“ Things that hurt— more.” 

She looked at me curiously. Perhaps she 
thought my mind was wandering again. 

“ Worse things,” I repeated to myself. I 
felt crushed, broken, deadly tired, yet some- 
thing in me refused to die. 

“Vanity of vanities,” said the preacher. 
“ All is vanity.” 

Yet for Vanity I must live and work, and 
put aside forever the best and sweetest hopes 
of a woman’s life. 


THE END. 


The Real Lady Hilda 


By B. M. CROKER 

266 pages ^ sizes y jyh xy, cloih^ j stampings^ $1.00 

**The Real Lady Hilda,” by B. M. Croker, is a very pleasing novel, de- 
pending for its interest not upon sensational incident, but upon a clever portrayal of 
disagreeable traits of character in high society. The story is told by a young lady 
who finds herself with her stepmother in obscure lodgings in an obscure country 
town. The head of the family had been physician to a Rajah in India, had lived 
in princely style and had entertained in princely fashion. He had died and left to 
his widow and child nothing but a small pension, and thev soon found themselves 
in straightened circumstances. Besides the character drawing, the entertaining 
feature of the story lies in the shabby treatment which the two impecunious 
women receive from the people whom they have so royally entertained in India, 
and the inability of the widow, with her Indian experience, to understand it. 
Entertaining, too, is the fawning toadyism of the middle-class women, who disdain- 
fully tip their noses and wag their tongues when they find that the poor women are 
neglected by the great lady in the neighborhood. 

— TAe Bookseller^ Newsdealer and Stationer^ June l, 1899. 

Mrs. Croker belongs to the group of English country life novelists. She is 
not one of its chief members, but she succeeds often in being amusing in a quiet, 
simple way. Her gentlefolk lack the stamp of caste, but the plots in which they 
are placed are generally rather ingenious. Of course, in a field so assiduously 
worked, one cannot look for originality. The present book is just what the author 
modestly calls it — a ‘‘sketch,” with the usual poor girl of good family and the 
-qually familiar happy ending . — Mail and Express, May i, 1899. 


At all booksellers or will be sent, 
postpaid, upon receipt of price by 

F. M. BUCKLES & COMP ANT 

f-ii East i6th Street, New York 


yoan^ the Curate 


By FLORENCE WARDEN 

^o8 pages^ sizi 7 ^ xgy cloth^ g stampings^ $r^oo 


The time of the story Is 1748, its scene being along the seacoast of Sussex^ England* 
The doings here of the ‘^frcc traders,” as they called themselves, or smugglers, as the 
government named them, had become so audacious that a revenue cutter with a smart 
young lieutenant in command, and a brigade of cavalry, were sent down to work together 
against the oifenders. Everybody in the village seems engaged in evading the revenue 
laws, and the events are very exciting. Joan is the parson's daughter, and so capable and 
useful in the parish that she is called ‘‘the curate.” She and the smart young lientenant 
arc the characters in a romance . — Book l^otes^ May, 1899. 

The author of the once immensely popular “ House on the Marsh ” turns in her new 
story to the Sussex coast as it was in the middle of the last century. The time and the 
place will at once suggest smugglers to the observant reader, and, in truth, these gentry 
play an important part in the tale. — I'he Mail and Express^ April ll, 1899. 

Miss Florence Warden in “Joan, the Curate” (F. M. Buckles & Co.) tells an or- 
thodox tale of smugglers in the last century with plenty of exciting adventures and no de- 
viations from the accepted traditions of a familiar pattern in fiction. 


— N. y*. Sun^ May 6, 1899* 


“Joan, the Curate” (Joan, a creamy-skinned, blackeyed maiden, gets her surname on 
account of the part she plays in helping her father. Parson Langley, with his duties), is a 
village tale of the smuggling days on the wild marsh coast of Kent and the equally lonely 
cliffs of Sussex. The village is a hot-bed of these daring “ free-traders,” even the parson 
and his daughter are secretly in sympathy with them, and young Lieutenant Tregenna, 
who is in command of the revenue cutter sent to overawe the natives, has anything but a 
comfortable task to perform. His difficulties only increase when he falls in love with Joan 
and discovers her leanings towards the illegalities of the village, and when, at the same 
time, the audacious leader of the smugglers, Ann Price, who carries on her trade disguised 
as a man, falls in love with him herself, the complications are almost bewildering. The 
story moves through countless adventures, sanguinary fights, and lovers' quarrels to ^he 
conventionally happy ending and the partial return of the fishermen to honest ways^ 


^Book N4 w$^ May^ l899« 


At all booksellers or will be sent^ 
postpaid^ upon receipt of price by 


F. M. BUCKLES C0MPAN7 

fi-ir East i6tk Street, New York 



The Good Mrs, Hypocrite 


By ‘‘RITA" 

284. pages y size 7 ^ x cloth ^ g stampings y $r,oo 

“Good Mrs, Hypocrite.” A study in self-righteousness, is a most enjoyable 
novel by “Rita.” It has little of plot, and less of adventure, but is the study of 
a single character and a narration of her career. But she is sufficiently unique to 
absorb the attention, and her purely domestic experiences are quite amusing. She 
is the youngest daughter of a Scotch family, angular as to form and sour as to fea- 
ture. She had an aggressive manner, was selfish, and from girlhood set herself 
against all tenderness of sentiment. Losing her parents, she tried her hand as a 
governess, went to her brother in Australia, returned to England and joined a sister- 
hood in strange garb, and her quarrelsome disposition and her habit of quoting 
scripture to set herself right made her presence everywhere objectionable. For this 
-)ld maid was very religious and strict as to all outward forms. Finally she went to 
ive with an invalid brother. She discharged the servant, chiefly because she was 
plump and fair of feature, and she replaced her with a maid as angular as herself, 
straight from Edinbro’. The maid was also religious and quoted scripture, and the 
fun of the story lies in the manner in which the woman who had had her way so 
long was beaten by her own weapons. 

— Bookseller y Newsdealer and Stationery June 15, 1899, 

The Scotch character is held up in this story at its worst. All its harshness, 
love of money, unconscious hypocrisy, which believes in lip-service while serving 
but its own self, are concentrated in the figure of the old spinster who takes charge 
of her invalid brother’s household. She finds a match, however, in the Scotch 
servant she hires, hard like herself, but with the undemonstrative kindness that 
seems to be a virtue of the race. The book lacks the charm that lies at the root 
of the popularity of the books of the “Kailyard” school. In its disagreeable 
way, however, it is consistent, though the melodramatic climax is not the ending 
one has a right to expect . — The Mail and Expressy June 21, 1899. 


At all booksellers or will be senty 
postpaid^ up07i receipt of price by 

F. M. BUCKLES & CO MPA NT 

(f-li East i6th Street, New York 


The Plain Miss Cray 


By FLORENCE WARDEN 

3^7 Cloth, ink and gold, $i. 2 y. 

A novel without any aim but that of entertaining, which 
it does to perfection. A match-making mother, a beautiful 
daughter and a plain one, a poor wooer for the pretty girl, 
who is sent about his business by the worldly mater, to be 
recalled when her dreams prove unrealizable, and a brilliant 
match for the plain Miss Cray — this is the slight plot of an 
unpretentious, readable tale. — Mail and Express. 

A healthy story of the good, old-fashioned type ; interest- 
ing withott being unhealthily exciting . To every cloud there 
is a silver lining, and catastrophes only threaten, never hap- 
pen. The characters are normal and their lives natural. A 
pleasant relief from the intense problem novel. — Philadel- 
phia Telegraph. 

After a careful study of the history of humor from the 
time of Noah to the Sunday comic supplements, Mark Twain 
declared that there were really only thirty-nine genuine 
original jokes as the sum total of human effort in that direc- 
tion. A study of the novels of the year justifies the assertion 
that there are only two kinds of novels — those in which 
everything ends all right and everybody is happy and those 
in which everything is all wrong and nobody is happy. Of 
this latter class of novels we have had a surfeit recently, and 
can afford to thank Miss Warden for turning back into the 
paths of optimism, of cheerfulness and peace, as she does in 
“The Plain Miss Cray.’’ — New York World. 

“A novel in which poetical justice is fearlessly dealt out,’’ 
a writer in the London Literary World humorously remarks, 
“ has become almost a thing of the past.” For those who 
have found this a hardship “The Plain Miss Cray,” by 
Florence Warden (F. M. Buckles & Company), will doubt- 
lessly appeal. It is perhaps enough for the intending reader 
to know that the heroine whose name figures in the title of 
the book, triumphs over the villain and her prettier rivals with 
ease. Those who “ get enough of life as it is” and want 
something else in their fiction can obviously take up this 
volume with confidence. — N. Y. Evening Telegram. 

At all booksellers or will be sent, 
postpaid, upon receipt of price by 

F. M. BUCKLES & COMPANY 

g-ii East 1 6 th Street, New York 



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